


Biology and the Consulting Detective

by Popcornjones



Series: You Can Only Bond Once [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alpha John Watson, Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Sex, Beta Sex, Case Fic, Danger, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hospitalization, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John to the Rescue, Kidnapping, Lestrade has a secret, M/M, Omega Sherlock Holmes, Omega Trafficking, Omega Verse, Oral Sex, Rescue Missions, Rough Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock To The Rescue, Smut, St Bartholomew's Hospital, Top John, casefic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-07-04 07:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones
Summary: Now that they are bonded, Sherlock and John navigate family, friends, a convoluted case and their burgeoning relationship – all whilst trying to find, and protect themselves against, Moriarty.I will post a new chapter every Wednesday!





	1. Chapter One

John made a note on his pad of paper. The other students used their phones or small tablets, but John didn’t type fast enough – neither with his thumbs nor all ten fingers.

They followed Dr. Mahon into the post-mortem examination theatre where the next patient – patient? Body? Corpse? Subject? – lay and watched as she began her preliminary examination, talking as she went. She threw out questions to the students and John’s heart sank at how few he could answer. He’d missed almost a month and the morgue rotation would be finished soon. John would have to retake it.  
That would push his graduation off, which meant he wouldn’t be in the intern pool this year, wouldn’t get a placement in a hospital...

John pushed the worry away. He was touchy and out-of-sorts – this was the first day he had spent entirely apart from Sherlock. Everything felt _wrong_ , everything was irritating. Even the air ground against his skin unpleasantly.

He knew Sherlock felt the same – his vexation and discomfort came through their empathetic link loud and clear. But they had to learn to be apart. They couldn’t live the rest of their lives joined at the hips. (John’s lewd thought at that image did nothing to assuage Sherlock’s discontent.)

“Watson, can you stay a minute?” The pathologist interrupted his reverie.

“Yeah, of course, Doctor. What is it?” John worked hard to keep the annoyance from his voice.

She looked at him astutely. “You’re one of my best students.” She said.

“Oh, erm, cheers.”

“Help me with this?” She asked, indicating another body. It needed to be stripped and washed.

“Of course.”

“I understand your bonding wasn’t planned.” She asked after they’d started.

“Er, no – I wouldn’t have planned it in the middle of a rotation. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.” The elderly Beta they were working on had been a patient. She still had tape on her arms and electrodes on her chest. Her hands and the insides of her elbows were blotched purple and green with bruises. 

“Mm. How did you meet?”

“On the street, actually. He needed some help, I was able to give it… things went from there…. erm… very quickly.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about. Omegas, when allowed to choose their own mates, often make snap decisions. And anecdotally, those bonds are surprisingly durable. I’ve thought about doing a study… but it’s hard to get funding to study Omegas.

“In any case, most students would take the semester off after something so life-changing. Are you sure you’re ready to be back?” John helped her lift the body and remove the hospital gown.

“Medical school is important to me. My mate understands that. And I was hoping that if I put in some extra time, made up for what I lost, I wouldn’t have to put off graduation.”

Dr. Mahon cocked her head. “You certainly could try to do that.” She said. “But that’s not your only option.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was about your age when I bonded with my Virginia. Everyone knows that new bondmates need to spend a week or two together after the heat – and you’ve had two and a half – but honestly, Watson, I think that’s bullshit.”

“Oh!… erm…”

“New bondmates need a hell of a lot longer than two weeks. I know I did, but I forced myself back to work even though I wasn’t ready. We get a lot of pressure as Alphas – we’re supposed to be tough and ambitious, and we are. But a new bond is delicate. 

“A lot of bodies come through here. I’ve seen a lot of dead Alphas, done their postmortems studied their brains… most of them don’t have bondmates, but the ones that did, their brains are different. Their limbic systems are better developed. Noticeably so. 

“The sad fact is that most Alphas survive their Omegas, but Omegas almost never survive their Alphas. Sometimes a bonded pair comes through here together… and those Alphas… their brains are _amazing._ Their limbic systems… the entire temporal lobe… bonded pairs that survive together into old age, did you know they never suffer from dementia? There is no degeneration, no memory loss. There’s no neurodegenerative disease at all. And no bonded pair has ever had a stroke – not that I could find, and I’ve looked.”

“What are Omega brains like?” John asked, fascinated.

“It depends. The stronger the bond, the healthier the Omega in general. I’m guessing yours is pretty strong – Omegas don’t get it wrong when they get to choose. Unfortunately, Omegas are rarely asked their preference. Omegas lucky enough to have a good, strong bond have beautiful brains. Omegas without a strong link to their Alpha often suffer degeneration. The Alpha still benefits from the bond, but the Omega doesn’t. Omegas really do get the short end of the biological stick– not to mention the societal stick.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Doctor.”

“On the other hand, infants born to Omegas tend to be extremely robust – they’re larger and have fewer illnesses. They’re more intelligent as well – no offense, Watson, my parents are Betas. The old families with generation after generation of children born to bonded pairs – their intellect is legendary.”

“That would explain a lot about my mate.”

“He’s from an old family? I’m surprised, their bondings are almost always arranged.”

“He, erm, didn’t care for the arrangements.”

She looked John over thoughtfully. “Lucky you found each other, then. Your children will be exceptional, Watson.

“Oh, erm, not really planning on children.”

“No? Probably wise if your mate is male. But one baby shouldn’t be a problem.”

“We’ll see, I guess.” John shifted uncomfortably. “How do unbonded Omegas fare in your experience?” He said changing the subject _away_ from babies.

Dr. Mahon looked contemplative. “We don’t get too many unbonded Omegas. I can’t say I’ve ever had an unbonded Omega over twenty-five. But that could be more that the unbondeds that I’ve seen were trafficked. That’s a terrible life no matter what your genders.”

“Yeah.” John said thinking of Moriarty, a small explosion of anger blooming in his chest.

“What I’m trying to say, Watson, is to cherish your bond. You need more than a couple weeks. I can see how on edge you are – take the semester. Or if you can’t afford it, I can talk to the administration about an amended schedule, half days maybe.” They had finished with the body and Dr. Mahon led John out of the examination theatre.

“That’s, erm, very kind… thank you, but I’ll have to discuss it with Sherlock first. I don’t make decisions for him.”

She beamed at him. “Good. Let me know what you decide. Oh, one more thing, Watson, take care of yourself – nothing breaks my heart like seeing a young Omega on my table because his bondmate was a reckless, thrill-seeking idiot that got himself killed. Protecting him also means protecting yourself.”

“Yeah, erm, I’m not much of a thrill-seeker.”

“No? I thought you were in the Army.”

“Oh, right. Just to pay for medical school.”

She nodded. “If you’re deployed, what happens to your Omega?”

“Doctor…” John started to protest but stopped himself with a sigh. She was trying to help him. “We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“And if you’re killed? It’s not like Omegas have a choice in the matter. If you die, he dies.” 

“Right. Possibly something I should have considered before we bonded.”

“That ship has sailed.”

“Yeah.” 

“Some things to think about then.”

“Right. Ta, doctor. This has been very enlightening.”

“I would be lost without my Virginia.” Dr. Mahon said. “I can’t imagine life without her.”

“That’s normal then? It hasn’t been a month yet, and I can barely remember how I felt before.”

“If you’re lucky.” 

 

\--- 

 

They’d made love the night before. 

John hadn’t realised how anxious he was about the impending separation until he was kissing his Omega with a needy desperation he’d never before experienced.

It was different than the biological imperative of heat… pushing Sherlock down onto the bed didn’t carry that heady, powerful feeling he’d had then. John wasn’t the most virile Alpha in the world, he was just a man. 

A man who couldn’t imagine life without Sherlock Holmes.

He had learned a lot about his Omega since they'd bonded. John had learned that Sherlock was brilliant. Amazing. Extraordinary. He'd never met anyone like his Omega, able to know so much about someone from observation alone. John never tired of listening to Sherlock talk through his deductions. 

John learned that Sherlock was difficult, moody and intense, his brain racing, threatening to consume itself. Sherlock needed to channel his restless genius, he needed knotty problems to unravel be it chemical, clinical or criminal in nature. Without outlet, Sherlock was impossible to be with. But he couldn't escape himself. 

John had learned that Sherlock didn't understand people very well. He could observe and deduce so much yet still not understand how those things might make someone feel. The Omega's blunt manner was honest, often offensive, and devoid of sentiment. Sherlock regularly felt confused by John's feelings and reactions through their link. John sensed him studying John's emotions, trying to fathom the whys and wherefores.

John had learned that Sherlock was stubborn. His upbringing had been a strange mix of over-indulgence and deprivation. His family was wealthy and influential, but Sherlock was just the Omega, a commodity along with all the other Holmes assets. His brother had thought enough of his intelligence and ability to educate him, but still thought his role was to bond and breed. Despite the limitations placed on him, the Omega had doggedly walked his own path, disappointing expectations at every turn.

John had learned that Sherlock loved to be touched. Walking through a room, sitting at table, rushing through the streets – there was never a bad time to reach out and take his mate's hand. Sherlock might frown or gesture at the experiment he was working on, but John could feel how much he _craved_ the contact. 

John had learned that Sherlock was sensual. He loved sex. He loved making love with John, ever more adventurously. A day rarely went by that they didn't have carnal adventures of one sort or another. Their empathetic link allowed John to feel what Sherlock felt as he made love to him, creating an erotic feedback loop of mindblowing intensity. John had never had sex like this, never had so much sex and had never wanted it more.

The empathetic link was ever-present. They might be kilometers apart, and the low hum of Sherlock's concentration or excitement or irritation would wend its way through John's emotions. He could separate his own feelings if he thought about it, but the world was so much richer with his mate's sharp sensations mingling with his own. It gave John new perspectives, new contexts. The link even brought them together in sleep, their dreams mingling, blending, coalescing into strange and wonderful vistas they shared together.

Projected inward, the link made them insular – a single unit concerned only with itself. Projected outwards, the link expanded both of their horizons and understanding. The world enlarged, augmented, exploded with new information.

 

\---

 

Since their escape – was escape the word? Moriarty had simply left – from the pool, they’d reluctantly moved into Mycroft’s townhouse. The Alpha was rarely there, and when he was, he was working in his home office. It was mostly the two of them, rattling around the place. Well, the two of them, the butler, the cook, the two maids and the footman. That last had thrown John – was this bloody Downton Abbey?! – until he decided that the footman doubled as security. Actually, all five of Mycroft's household staff were probably armed and dangerous. 

If it was a strange existence for John, Sherlock took it in stride. He’d grown up in a lavish home surrounded by servants after all. The Omega’s main objection was being, as he called it, ‘under Mycroft’s thumb.’ John simply didn’t like being beholden. They needed to find a place of their own.

DCI Gregson had texted Sherlock a week into their stay at his brother’s. 

“John, get your coat!” Sherlock had cried. “We have a case!”

“Erm, we have a what?” John had asked, dutifully putting on his coat.

“A case! A murder! It looks like a good one too.” Sherlock said, rubbing his hands together in glee. “Fifth floor flat, door locked from the inside, no murder weapon. John, it’s Christmas!”

John hadn’t had any idea what he was on about, but his mate’s giddy excitement – felt through their empathetic link – was infectious enough to keep John from asking questions.

They’d taken a taxi to Scotland Yard and Sherlock had swooped in, insulted the Sargent at the desk – who buzzed them through without comment – then taken John to the office of the DCI, the Detective Inspector in Charge.

Gregson was a tiny Alpha female with shrewd eyes. John immediately knew he would not want to be on her bad side. She tossed a thick file at Sherlock. “Down the hall in conference room ‘C.’” She commanded. “And don’t get coffee all over my files again!”

“If you’d let me see the scene _firsthand _, you wouldn’t have to worry about the state of your files.” Sherlock complained.__

__“You’re a menace on scene.” She shot back. “My techs say you contaminate the evidence.”_ _

__“That’s because they’re idiots! That evidence was already contaminated by the first officer on the scene – obvious! He was covered in the same black cat hairs that were in the blood smudges. I told your forensic techs that and they ignored me.”_ _

__“Who is this?” She asked, seeming to notice John for the first time._ _

__“My bondmate.” Sherlock said, his voice wary, but John could feel his brimming pride._ _

__“John Watson.” John had offered his hand and she had shaken it whilst giving him an assessing once-over._ _

__“There’s no way that – no offence – Mycroft Holmes chose _you_ to bond with his precious brother.” She said._ _

__John did not take offence._ _

__“ _I_ chose him.” Sherlock said haughtily. “Don’t pretend you don’t know – clearly Mycroft’s been in to answer for causing the riot.”_ _

__“You don’t take any responsibility for that?” She asked mildly._ _

__“I’m not allowed any responsibility, why should I bother feeling guilty about it?” Sherlock answered through gritted teeth. John knew full well that Sherlock did feel guilty. And responsible and furious and frightened._ _

__“Touché.” She turned her attention back to John. “How are you getting on with the Holmes clan?”_ _

__John shrugged. “Mycroft has been… supportive.” Sherlock scoffed loudly. “I haven’t met Mummy yet. She’s coming to dinner later this week.”_ _

__“Has your family met Sherlock?”_ _

__“There’s only my sister… and she’s not much for company.”_ _

__“Yes, yes, very interesting.” Sherlock interrupted, gathering up the files. He pinned a glare on Gregson. “If I solve this today, you’ll let me go to the next scene.” He wheedled._ _

__Gregson looked skeptical. “You’ll solve it today anyway.”_ _

__“It’s faster if I can see the scene.”_ _

__“You’re disruptive.”_ _

__“I’m bonded! Your Alphas don’t have an excuse to lose their bottle now.”_ _

__“You’ll still insult them. And my Betas.”_ _

__“I wouldn’t have to insult them if they were competent. Come on… I’ve doubled your clearance rate. If you let me on scene, I can raise it even higher.”_ _

__The DCI sighed. “We’ll see.”_ _

__“Yes!” Sherlock crowed._ _

__“That’s _not_ a ‘yes.’ That’s a ‘maybe.’”_ _

__“I knew you’d see reason. You’re eminently sensible.”_ _

__“I didn’t say ‘yes.’”_ _

__“Come on, John. We have a case to solve!” Sherlock, his emotions a mix of determination, anticipation and exhilaration, had led him down the hall to a conference room. The Omega had covered the table with photos of a rather nice, contemporary flat with a triple bolted door, a lovely view of the river and a corpse with a bullet hole in its head in the master bedroom. After two hours, Sherlock had brought Gregson in and showed her a picture on his phone of a young Chinese man, an acrobat in town with a Chinese circus, and explained that the dead man had recently traveled to China. It was a smuggling ring – ‘obvious’ from the man’s suitcase, laying open in the bedroom, and the tattoo the coroner had noted on the bottom of the man’s foot. The circus was a cover for the assassin. The man had used his acrobatic skill to climb up the building and accessed the flat through the balcony, leaving the front door triple bolted from the inside._ _

__“Amazing!” John had breathed, blown away by his mate’s brilliance. Sherlock had glanced at him shyly._ _

__“You know you do that out loud.”_ _

__“Sorry. I’ll stop.”_ _

__“No! It’s …fine.”_ _

__Gregson had listened to Sherlock’s speech with a look of growing disbelief. “Only you,” She said. “Would look at all this and see a Chinese assassin.”_ _

__“You might want to head out to Heathrow.” Sherlock said imperturbably. “The circus is leaving London tonight.” He showed her his phone once more, flight information on the screen._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Mahon ends up being a bit of an exposition fairy – she has more of a role in future chapters
> 
> I've been thinking about how fascinating Omega biology is and its implications. As marriage affects men and women differently (https://www.huffingtonpost.com/vicki-larson/his-hers-marriage_b_3129269.html) – I figured bonding and the empathetic link would benefit the Alpha and Omega differently. The Omega gets a measure of safety, but quality of life depends greatly on the quality of the Alpha. The Alpha benefits regardless, the bond making them healthier, giving them societal approbation and respect, and producing more robust offspring.
> 
> Alpha privilege, alive and well in the Omega Verse.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's update Wednesday! I've been so excited about this that I almost posted it several times this past week.
> 
> Hope you enjoy a check in with Sherlock and his new friend DC Lestrade

Sherlock sat in DC Lestrade’s cubicle feeling prickly and aggravated. Being here without John… it was horrible. He could feel John through their link and it was simultaneously comforting and tormenting. 

He wanted a cigarette. Badly.

It didn’t help that Lestrade smelled like he’d just smoked a fag before walking in the door.

Sherlock had met the policeman a week ago and immediately discerned his secret. A quick check told him that John had no idea. Alphas were clueless when it came to interpreting scent.

And really, John _should_ have sensed that something was off. When the DC came to interview them, John was still compelled to do the whole aggressive-Alpha-stay-away-from-my-mate thing (that Sherlock found unaccountably thrilling). When Lestrade came in the room, John had bristled for all of 15 seconds before standing down and inviting the copper in. 

_Inviting him in!_

Yes, Lestrade had the calming neutral-vanilla scent of a Beta, and he was scrupulous about keeping his eyes averted and his hands where John could see them… but he was a good-sized, good-looking Beta male. 

At that point, John couldn’t even let the Beta females that cleaned Mycroft’s house into the room if Sherlock was in it. (Although to be fair, they were almost certainly part of the deadly security detail that hovered in Mycroft's vicinity at all times.)

“I know I’m being ridiculous.” John had admitted. “But after being kidnapped and threatened by an insane person – who _touched_ you! – I’m a little jumpy. It doesn’t help at all that we’re _here_." He gestured at the room in Mycroft’s townhouse where they were staying.

Being with your new bondmate in another Alpha’s territory was _not_ ideal. His threat instincts had been on such high alert that John barely slept. 

The fact that Lestrade did not trigger John’s threat instincts, should have told the Alpha everything. Seriously, it was amazing what people failed to observe when it was _right in front of their noses!_

Lestrade knew he knew. The two seconds of pointed eye contact whilst John ordered tea had communicated that – as well as that Sherlock would keep his secret. Although it was always handy to have a bit of leverage…

Leverage he was attempting to utilise now.

“I can solve it.” Sherlock told him. “Ask Gregson! Gregson takes me to crime scenes.”

“Your brother would murder me if I took you to a crime scene now – you were just kidnapped!”

“That was weeks ago! Besides, I don’t need Mycroft’s permission.”

“You think John would be happy to hear I took you larking all over town?”

“John is happy when I’m happy. And it isn’t _larking_!” Sherlock leaned in. “He knows I’m safe with a, ahem, _Beta_.”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair as if Sherlock had slapped him. “Fine.” He snapped. “Get your coat.”

Sherlock smiled with satisfaction and followed the policeman.

The scene was grim. An unbonded Omega female had been found in a skip. She was nude, a petite girl with long tangles of brown hair, laying awkwardly amongst construction debris and bags of garbage. Body temp and nascent insect activity indicated she’d been there roughly eight hours.

“Dump job.” Lestrade observed, indicating that the forensic team should stand back.

“Obviously.” Sherlock said, prowling around. “High traffic area, there won’t be discernible tire tracks or footprints. Probably wore gloves, but worth dusting for prints.”

Lestrade groaned. “On a skip? There’ll be hundreds.”

“At least.” Sherlock replied. “She’s young, 15, I’d say.”

“Crikey.” Lestrade mumbled.

“Glove.” Sherlock demanded. He held out a hand without looking up.

Lestrade sighed, got a glove from a tech and gave it to Sherlock who snapped it on. With his gloved hand, Sherlock opened her mouth. “Some dentistry but no orthodontia.” He remarked. He pulled up an eyelid and peered at her eyes one at a time. “No petechiae… distinct chafing on her neck and… under her arms… here by her shoulder...” 

“Some kind of clothing?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock examined her hands, one and then the other. “Broken nails. She fought, but there’s no tissue underneath. Extensive bruising on her hips and arms.” He touched a knee and peered closely. “Injection marks here, inner part of the thigh.”

“Drug Addict?”

“The placement suggests something more medical in nature.” Sherlock sniffed her hair, frowned, then sniffed again. “Chlorine.” He murmured. Then he moved her hair aside and carefully turned her head, exposing the back of her neck. He leaned as close to the scent gland as he could and inhaled.

“Anything?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock glanced at him. “Smell for yourself.” He said.

Lestrade glowered. “Beta noses aren’t that good.” 

“Can’t hurt.” Sherlock said blandly.

The policeman hesitated then scoffed and nudged the Omega out of the way. He leaned close and sniffed. Then again, lingeringly, his eyes closing and his lips parting. He abruptly shook himself out of his reverie, stood up and shrugged. “Rotten spaghetti and banana peels.” He said. "And whatever else has gone off in that skip. You?”

The Omega regarded him with a raised eyebrow, but Lestrade stared back challengingly. Sherlock returned his attention to the girl. “Brown sugar and something bitter, some scent eclipsing hers... not a bondmate, obviously, but something... else.” The bitter aftertaste was familiar…

“Well, that’s helpful.” One of the techs snarked.

“Everything’s helpful.” Sherlock replied, walking away. “You’ll have the contents of the skip at NSY tonight?”

“Everything but the body, of course.” Lestrade said. "That'll be at Bart's."

Sherlock nodded. “Good. John and I’ll be there.” 

“Where is John, by the way?” Lestrade asked, falling into step beside the Omega.

“Hospital. He’s a medical student, where else would he be?”

“Standing between you and everyone else like he’s been doing for the last few weeks. Hey, aren’t you supposed to be looking for a flat for the two of you?”

“Dull.”

“I’m sure living with your brother is laugh-a-minute.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He longed for John. The crime scene had been a momentary distraction, but now the cranky-itchy-lonely feeling was back. He looked sideways at the policeman and noticed him wince. “Headache, Lestrade?” Sherlock asked pointedly.

“I’m fine.” Lestrade snapped.

“Must be about time you took a few days off to look out for your... sister, is it?”

“Niece! And it's nowhere near time!”

“Right. Your Omega ‘niece’ who isn’t bonded because...?”

“She has Down’s Syndrome.”

“...Syndrome.” Sherlock said in synch with Lestrade’s defensive grumble, as if he’d known all along. “Very convenient. Surely even so, some Alpha would take her...”

“Take her, sure! Bond with her? No way. I’m protecting her from the kind of Alpha that would ‘take’ her.” Lestrade’s agitated voice had carried and the techs back at the skip were staring.

Sherlock held up his hands in a ‘calm down’ motion. “ _I_ understand. Omega, remember?”

Lestrade huffed and continued walking. But he was by nature patient and forgiving. “I’m curious about something.” He said.

“Just one thing?” Sherlock asked drily.

Lestrade ignored the jibe. “I saw the video. You picked John out of that riot. How did you know? How did you know it would work out with him?”

“It hasn’t been a month, isn’t it too soon to know if it’s ‘worked out?’” Sherlock asked condescendingly. He wanted to scream he missed John so much.

“No.” Lestrade said simply. “I’ve seen bonded couples. How it is at the start is how it is. The connection – there’s always some kind of connection – it doesn’t get deeper and it doesn’t go away, but the deeper the connection the better they get along. Yours is pretty intense, you're practically finishing each other's sentences. Was it just because he helped you? How did you _know_?”

Sherlock considered for a moment. “He smelled right.” He said simply.

“Smelled right?”

“Maybe _you_ can’t discern personal scents through all that Beta vanilla and cigarette smoke, but you know that all Alphas have a unique scent.”

“Yeah, and Omegas. Omegas are supposed to smell sweet and Alphas smell spicy, or something.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Not spicy per se, just not sweet. Some Omegas – I don’t know if it’s all or just some – have an especially sensitive sense of smell. I can pick up notes in an Alpha’s personal scent that lead me to be wary of that person. A few are very… distressing.”

“Like Moriarty.”

Sherlock repressed a shudder. “Yes.” 

“But John?”

“John’s scent... John’s scent is _perfect_.”

"Perfect?" Lestrade asked doubtfully.

"Yes." 

“And that’s why you decided to bond with him?”

“Would repeating myself make it any more clear?” Sherlock didn’t even try to reign in his impatience.

Lestrade chuckled. “All right. All right. One more question – do you think him helping you out of the riot affected the way you perceived his scent? Or would he have smelled 'perfect' if you’d met him somewhere else?”

“Chicken or the egg, Lestrade? I suspect Omegas – some Omegas, at least – developed the ability to make judgements based on scent as a coping mechanism, as a way to protect ourselves from particularly dangerous Alphas.”

“And conversely, to find Alphas that are trustworthy.” Lestrade extrapolated. “So you think John would have smelled ‘perfect’ no matter how you met him.”

“I suspect so, yes. I’m not the first Omega he’s helped out.”

“Mm. Have you met many Omegas with this ability?”

“My father. He told me to trust it – if someone’s scent was bad or even off, to stay away.”

“Must be helpful, having an Omega parent to give you advice like that.”

Sherlock looked away. “He died when I was seven... leaving Mycroft in charge.”

“That’s rough. Still, better than being surrounded by Betas.”

“Seems to have had its advantages.” Sherlock observed archly. “Your ‘niece’ manages all right.”

Lestrade ducked his head. “Yeah. She manages.” He mumbled. “Anyway, I’d be curious to know if this is something all Omegas can do.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve only known three – no...” He said, locking eyes with Lestrade. “...make that four – Omegas, including my father.”

“Only four?”

“Most Omegas live sheltered lives. There aren’t many educational or occupational opportunities for Omegas. As you know.” Sherlock scoffed. “There aren’t any Omega bars or clubs, at least not that I’m aware of. Maybe a sewing circle somewhere. You’ve met a lot of Omegas through your job? A lot of domestic disturbances?” 

“Yeah, a couple. That and Alpha stalkers.”

“That’s exactly why I’ve known so few. Most unbonded Omegas stay close to home to avoid being harassed. Bonded Alphas frequently keep their Omega close, guarding them instinctually from competing Alphas. Because there are fewer Omegas than Alphas, bonding with one has become a sign of status – wealthy Alphas will pay a ‘bride price’ for an Omega to bond into the family. I believe my grandmother won a bidding war to secure my father for my mother, her heir.”

“I’ve heard about that.” Lestrade said. “And there’s the flip side – Omegas in poor families are bought cheap or even stolen and pimped out as soon as they present. Like our girl in the skip, probably.”

“Clearly.”

“I helped raid an Omega whorehouse once... they shot them up with hormones to make them go into heat more often.”

Sherlock shuddered. “Every Alpha’s wet dream, an Omega in heat.” He looked at Lestrade thoughtfully. “Your parents… you must have moved a lot when you were a child.”

Lestrade stared back, his eyes hard. “Yeah, we did.”

Sherlock nodded. “They were good parents.”

“The best.”

Sherlock paused, licking his lips. “Omegas should trust their sense of smell.” He stated. 

“That’s your advice to Omegas?”

“That’s my advice to _you_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update Wednesday!!! 
> 
> Time to meet Mummy! Even Sherlock is tongue-tied in her presence. Sorry John, had to happen some time. 
> 
> Plus, some much needed smut.

The day Mummy was due for dinner, John had watched Sherlock pace and fidget for hours. He changed his shirt three times and shouted at Mycroft’s (delightful) cook before John drew his Omega into his arms and held him close. “There’s nothing she can do.” He murmured, projecting his certainty through their link.

“I know.” Sherlock replied tonelessly. John felt his dread with utter clarity. 

The Alpha rubbed his thumb across the almost-healed bond bite on the back of Sherlock’s neck and smiled as his Omega melted against his chest. Within their link, John picked up the ball of dread and began combing through it, pulling apart the strands and examining them. Mummy was a distant figure, brusque and impatient, but not threatening… until the terrible absence of papa. To lonely little Sherlock, Mummy became a fuming disciplinarian, Sherlock’s nemesis in a battle of wills… mother and son throwing their rage and loss at each other indiscriminately. Gradually Mycroft inserted layer upon layer of intermediaries between them, not least of which was himself, so they rarely dealt directly with each other. Mummy and Mycroft would confer – Mycroft urging her to soften her more unreasonable and reactionary impulses – and Mycroft would communicate Mummy’s latest edict, urging Sherlock to compromise. Sherlock would then ostentatiously ignore them both despite the knots it caused in his stomach. Over the years, the knots had calcified and solidified into this ball of dread labeled “Mummy.”

Mummy arrived at her eldest son’s townhouse two weeks after her younger son had run away from home and the Alpha with whom she’d selected for him to bond.

She was a tall woman, statuesque, with her younger son’s dramatic colouring paired with Mycroft’s sharper features. At 63, she was still handsome, her dark hair threaded majestically with silver that matched her pinstriped pantsuit perfectly.

When Mycroft had introduced her to James Moriarty, Mummy was disposed against the match. Moriarty was unobjectionable, but a Holmes Omega could do so much better. Sherlock could have been bonded with royalty! Or any of a number of billionaires. For a healthy, young, fertile, _male_ Omega with breeding, beauty and the legendary Holmes intellect to pass on to his children, she could have asked, and gotten, almost anything: vast sums of money, prestige, iconic gems or works of art, invaluable favours and preferences for the family… Despite Sherlock’s excess of education and shockingly bad attitude – Mycroft was sentimental about the boy and had spoiled him shamelessly – Sherlock was a priceless asset.

Mummy was of a mind to reject Moriarty, but Mycroft had played his trump card – using her lingering affection for Jean-Claude’s memory to make his case for the mathematician. She very grudgingly allowed that a compatible match for the Omega would have made her well-missed bondmate happy. And she _had_ striven, during his lifetime, to make Jean-Claude happy.

James Moriarty was acceptable, Mummy supposed. He had made a name for himself in academic circles. He had a modest amount of wealth and somewhat less modest connections in the business and financial world that could benefit the Holmes interests. He was intelligent and well spoken, knowledgeable about the Holmes family and businesses. He didn’t simper and try to flatter her, nor did he talk down to her. Over drinks, Moriarty explained his predictive economic theorem – for forecasting markets, it was how he had made his millions – and she found herself fascinated and impressed. She could picture her Jean-Claude sitting at the table enjoying the conversation with her, feeling the warm hum of his approval through their link. Though Moriarty was not a conventional choice, the very unexpectedness of it would turn heads. Yes, Mummy decided, James Moriarty would be a strategic addition to the Holmes clan. She gave her permission.

For the bonding, Sherlock came home to Sherrinford and stopped using scent suppressant. His mature scent reminded her so much of Jean-Claude, she had a brief moment of sentiment, smiling at the Omega and brushing the curls back from his eyes. He hadn’t smiled back, but he had refrained from uttering a cutting remark – it was positively civilised.

The next afternoon James Moriarty had arrived… and everything went to hell.

Sherlock spent five minutes with the Alpha then took Mycroft aside and Mummy just _knew_ that the Omega was being difficult. Of course, he was! If she said ‘black,’ the spoiled child would say ‘white.’

They had gone out of their way to find the boy an especially compatible bondmate and he was throwing it in her face.

The rest of the day was increasingly awkward. Jim was very understanding, and so sweet to the ungrateful terror. Mycroft did his best to smooth things over, but Sherlock grew more and more truculent and sulky. 

They’d had it off in the Library, the three of them, Mycroft, Sherlock and herself. It was terrible. It was close to Sherlock’s time, everyone could smell that. It was putting all the Alphas on edge – it was never comfortable to find oneself experiencing the heat pheromones of a close relative. It made one hot and bothered and ashamed of oneself. Tempers ran high and Mycroft’s calm suggestion that they hear Sherlock out and then discuss it devolved into a shouting match in record time. 

“I know it’s frightening, darling. But it’ll be different after you bond, you’ll see. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“I’m not _afraid_!” Sherlock had retorted. “I _can’t_ bond with him...”

“Sherlock...” Mycroft began. “Be reasonable.”

“It will be easy once you’re in heat.” Mummy told him.

“No! I can’t! Mummy, please...!”

“You can and you will!”

“I can’t!” Sherlock had cried. “I hate him! He’s evil!”

“Stop being so dramatic!” Mummy retorted. “Mycroft went to a lot of trouble for this! A lot of trouble!”

“I didn’t ask him to!”

“Mycroft was trying to do right by you, you ungrateful brat!”

“Mummy…” Mycroft attempted to interject.

“It’s not… I’m not… you don’t understand!” Sherlock wailed.

“I understand perfectly!” Mummy snapped. “You’re rejecting him because _I_ accepted him. You reject everything I give you!”

“What have _you_ ever given me?!”

“I’ve given you everything you have – everything you’ve ever bloody wanted, you bloody got – you ungrateful, spoiled breeder! Everything!”

“Mummy!” Mycroft was shocked.

“That’s right, Mummy. I’m a breeder. I’m a fucking walking womb. God knows you’ve never seen anything more. Sorry I wasn’t an Alpha! I disappointed you from the start, why should I stop now?!”

Mummy was so furious, she had slapped him, his cheek flaming red with her handprint. The boy had actually come at her! If Mycroft hadn’t gotten between them, Mummy would not have been responsible for what happened. A beating would have done wonders for the brat’s attitude – but no good came from getting physical with an Omega that close to his heat.

Mycroft had herded him out of the library and hadn’t come back for almost an hour. When he did, she was composed. He poured them both a brandy and stretched his neck as he sat down opposite her.  


“It’s the hormones.” Her oldest son told her. “He’s been using suppressants so long…”

“That’s no excuse.”

“You know how emotional he can be. This is a big step – life changing. We should have expected something like this.”

“You _always_ make excuses for him.”

“He’s not like us, Mummy. He’s sensitive.”

Mummy sighed. “You’ll make a good parent, Mycroft. God knows you’ve had enough practice.”

Mycroft smiled. “I hope so, Mummy. 

She made a face. “Probably best we didn’t subject the Duchess to this.”

Mycroft smirked dutifully. “Sherlock said he’ll apologise to Jim this evening. I spoke with Moriarty briefly – he’s very understanding. He just wants what’s best for Sherlock.”

Mummy scoffed. “We all do.”

“Once they’re bonded, everything will be fine.”

“That cannot come soon enough.” Mummy had sighed.

She thought about that conversation now as she grimly looked John Watson over. What a waste! Mummy was furious with Mycroft for convincing her to consider James Moriarty and furious with herself for accepting him against her first inclinations. And most of all, she was furious with Sherlock. He had no idea what he’d done. Her son could be a Duchess’s consort by now!

Mummy sighed. Her mother had trained her – and she had trained Mycroft – to consider every asset, no matter how insignificant it seemed. Watson certainly _seemed_ insignificant. Mycroft had sent over the painfully thin file on the young Alpha. His mother was a Beta, she’d noted with distaste. But he had an Omega sister from the same dam – the Beta must have strong recessives to produce two elite children. Perhaps, Mummy allowed, Watson’s genes weren’t _too_ watered down. Sometimes one had to bring in a talented mongrel or two to keep the gene pool from becoming too insular. 

The Alpha was independent. Mummy could appreciate that. He hadn’t built his fortune yet, but the military was a good place to accomplish it. According to Mycroft, he was brave enough. As a doctor, he’d have rank. If he were ambitious, he could ascend quickly... especially with the Holmes family putting in a word here and there.

Mycroft could groom the Watson offspring... she wondered if she could convince Watson to hyphenate the children’s name. Holmes-Watson could be a lesser but useful off-shoot of the Holmes clan...

It was laughable compared to the Duchess! Or any of the other fine families who’d expressed interest in her son. She never should have agreed to the Moriarty compromise!

She ground her teeth as she reminded herself that was spilt milk.

At least Watson was a good specimen: well-muscled and broad shouldered, with good teeth and hair. His scent was virile – more masculine and appealing than Moriarty’s subtle potency. He should sire capable Alphas. If they had the Holmes intellect, they’d be useful.

Mummy turned her attention to her son – Watson said something to him and the Omega smiled softly. Her breath caught – for a moment he looked exactly like her own dear Jean-Claude. It hurt, she still missed him so much.

Then the Omega looked up at her and his face hardened into the surly lines of her infuriating son. She struggled with her disappointment – there was no use wishing Sherlock had been an Alpha, dwelling on how different everything would be if he were...

“Hello, Mummy.” Sherlock said.

Watson’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped in front of his mate. Mummy remembered to look at him, not the Omega. _His_ Omega, definitely. She could smell his robust scent overlaying the honey of her son.

“Madame Holmes.” Watson said, warning in his voice. 

“Mr. Watson. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

 

\---

 

As he got ready for bed that evening, John thought Mummy might be made of ice. Her words were cold, her voice was cold, her eyes were freezing. Her fury was arctic. John had thought Mycroft an iceman, but next to Mummy he was positively warm.

John was exhausted. He’d spent the evening listening politely to the head of one of the most powerful families in England whilst sending positive, confident feelings towards the churning turmoil of Sherlock’s emotions. 

John decided early in the evening not to argue with Mummy. That didn’t mean he agreed or capitulated, he simply let her believe whatever she wanted. Which, stripped down to their essence, was:

-John would sire children  
-Sherlock would ‘settle down’ and bear children  
-said children would be welcomed as part of the Holmes clan  
-she would sponsor the education of any Alpha children  
-Sherlock couldn’t possibly manage his own money  
-a long list of advice for how John should manage it for him  
-warnings against spoiling Sherlock – if you gave him an inch, he took a mile

He climbed into bed and gathered Sherlock in his arms. “You’re tense.” John said. “Not that I blame you, your mother is a bit… overbearing.”

Sherlock scoffed, and John felt him release a little of his tension. 

“We should talk to an agent tomorrow about finding our own flat. Mine’s not livable anymore – and I know you don’t want to go back there anyway. But we can’t stay here.” John laughed. “Mummy’s rubbing off on me, I’m making wild assumptions – _do_ you want to live together? I honestly can’t imagine living without you, but it’s your decision, Sherlock.”

“Idiot. Of course I want to.”

John smiled into the mass of dark curls. “Good.”

“I have a line on a flat.” Sherlock said.

“Really? That’s great! Where is it?”

“Westminster.”

“Ooo…. That area’s a little dear, yeah. Don’t think I can afford it.”

“Not to worry, I’m doing a favour for the landlady. If it works out, she’ll give us a break on the rent.”

“Sounds promising.”

“It is. We might have to go to Miami.”

“Miami? Florida? In the United States?! What’s in Miami?”

“Drug cartels. Mycroft and I have identified Moriarty’s signature in the workings of one of the most successful drug cartels in North America.”

“How did you manage that?”

“Using Moriarty’s own theorem, ironically. Part of his dissertation laid out his predictive economic theorem. He based it on some of Alan Turing’s formulae – in WWII, Turing and the Bletchley group broke the German’s Enigma machine code, without which, the allies would certainly have lost the war. In order to keep the Germans from realising that their code had been broken, Turing and his group worked out mathematically how much of the decoded information could be acted upon without arousing suspicion.”

“Right, every kid learns that in primary school.”

“Moriarty’s theorem applies the same principles to the economic markets, predicting what stocks will rise, which currencies will be strong and etc. Following the theorem allows the user to make investments that radically increase their wealth.”

“OK.” 

“There’s only one problem with it. It’s complete nonsense.” Sherlock said. “It worked perfectly for the year and a half it took Moriarty to convince Mycroft he would be a good bondmate for me. Since Moriarty disappeared two weeks ago, Mycroft and I have been applying the theorem, trying to find Moriarty through a money trail. But the theorem… it simply doesn’t work.”

“Maybe you’re doing it wrong.” John suggested. 

“Believe it or not, we did consider that.” Sherlock told him. “We took it to the professors on Moriarty’s dissertation committee. As they understand the theorem – and these are some of the best maths minds in the country – we were applying it correctly and it _should_ have been working.” 

“But it didn’t.”

“No, it didn’t. Mycroft and I began examining how it worked for the previous year and a half, and we discovered a subtle pattern – someone, we believe Moriarty, had been affecting the market. The death of a CEO, the failure of a crop, a government official embroiled in a sex scandal – many small unconnected occurrences that pushed the markets into following Moriarty’s theorem. _This_ is the real application of Moriarty’s theorem: exactly how to nudge the markets, which strings to pull, to make it do what he wants.”

“Amazing.” John uttered.

“I began applying the theorem to crime. How much crime can one person mastermind without getting caught? How many coppers does he have to bribe; how many people on the ‘inside’ will he need; how much can he steal; how many deaths; who to kill for maximum effect; how to kill for minimum risk – all strands of a web with Moriarty at the center.

“Once I began recognising the pattern, I began to see it other places – Moriarty’s fingerprints, his signature, is all over the drugs trade. He controls it and almost no one knows it – not the cartels, not the police, not Interpol or the D.E.A., no one.”

“Please tell me you haven’t gotten involved in the drugs trade, Sherlock.”

“Of course not. Well, mostly not. I’ve just been looking at it trying to trace Moriarty himself. If I can find him… if he’s taken out, everything falls back into chaos. Remouve the pattern and nothing runs smoothly any longer.” 

“OK. How does this get us a flat in central London?”

“In the course of the investigation, I came across a small-time drugs operation in Florida run by one Earnest Hudson. Hudson is on trial for murder right now and his operation is defunct. But I was able to see that someone had used Moriarty’s theorem to siphon off a not insignificant sum of money over the three decades Hudson had been in charge of the enterprise. It was the earliest use of the theorem I could find, and it was a rather rudimentary form of it.”

“What, you think Moriarty was stealing money from a drugs cartel when he was a kid?”

“I considered it. But I soon found a much more feasible answer.”

“Yeah?”

“Mrs. Hudson, Earnest’s Beta wife, had been socking away the cash hoping to escape from the brute. Whilst he never noticed the theft, unfortunately he kept very close tabs on his wife. The poor woman lived in terror for years until he was arrested for murder and she was finally able to leave him.”

“Still not sure how this all leads to a flat.”

“Mrs. Hudson fled to her home country, Britain, used some of the money to purchase a home for herself, and settled down to live the rest of her life in peace. However, the trial isn’t going well. The prosecution’s ‘smoking gun’ was disallowed by the Judge. The jury won’t hear the evidence. It’s starting to look very much like Earnest Hudson will get off. If that happens, he will absolutely track down his wife and subject her to the sorts of punishments he was fond of inflicting during their marriage.”

“He abused her.”

“Clearly. I’ve assured Mrs. Hudson that I can keep her husband locked up in Florida in exchange for a good deal on the second floor flat in her building.”

“Fantastic. How did you do it?”

“I haven’t yet." Sherlock admitted. "I’ve been going over the files the last day or so. I’m afraid Mummy’s put me off my game… I can’t shut her out and it’s… distracting! 

“You know she can’t do anything to you now, right.”

“I know. It’s just… I can’t turn my brain off… and she gets in there…”

John stroked his mate’s shoulder. “Can I help?

Sherlock sighed deeply… then looked up. “Actually, I think you can.”

“Oh! Good! What do I… Hey! Erm… what…” Sherlock grabbed the Alpha’s cock and started stroking. “Sherlock!”

“Sex, John! When we have sex, it stops my brain. It’s the only thing – short of opiates – that’s done that.”

“Wait, opiates!?”

But Sherlock wasn’t waiting. He was jacking John’s Alpha cock and kissing his neck and jaw. John’s hands were stroking his Omega's back and his arse and pulling him down into a kiss. John loved kissing Sherlock – he always seemed a little bit surprised by how much it affected him. John could kiss his Omega all night long just to see that what-have-you-done-to-me-I’m-weak-in-the-knees look on his face.

Sherlock made a small noise of desire and John almost devoured him whole. He was so gorgeous! John was hard, his Alpha cock was rigid and heavy in Sherlock’s hand. The Omega smiled and straddled John, and before John had quite realised what was happening, his mate impaled himself and John sunk into the hot, tight confines of his slick entrance.

“Fuck!” John breathed as Sherlock worked himself down his pole, his Omega cock bouncing stiffly. “Fuuuuck!”

The Omega began a slow grind. John clutched the ivory thighs and pressed his hips up in rhythm with Sherlock’s gyrations. It felt amazing, their eyes locked together, their hearts locked together within their bond link. 

Sherlock lifted himself up, his thighs flexing and lowered himself. He did it again, harder. And again, bouncing, landing hard, John’s cock deep within him. He adjusted slightly, leaning forward and bouncing again – gasping aloud as John’s cock found his sensitive internal pearl. He began bouncing on John’s cock faster, harder, crying out in ecstasy. 

Sherlock keened and came, clenching around John’s prick, shuddering and bracing himself on John’s chest. Yet his Omega cock didn’t spurt, it was stiff and still. 

After a moment, Sherlock began moving again, insatiable, using his weight to make the bed jounce, using the movement of the bed to thrust John’s cock deep inside himself as he bounced. Their flesh slapped together, sweaty and satisfying.

John dug his heels into the bed and fucked upwards into his mate’s tight arse, jackhammering. He gripped Sherlock’s hips, they moved together like a piston, his Omega crying out with each thrust. Sherlock’s fingers dug into his chest, his face shone damp and lovely, his eyes flashing mercury. 

John was going to cum. He grabbed hold of Sherlock’s prick and jacked it along with the slapping, slamming intercourse. For a moment he was suspended, they both were, over the waterfall. Then they plunged in together.

John felt them go over the edge, felt the first sharp shock of pleasure and he buried himself as deeply inside his Omega as he could, releasing his seed in freefall. The pleasure rolled over him in waves, echoing through him into Sherlock and back, around and around, the ecstasy juddering through his body, Sherlock gasping and shaking... 

His body began to relax. There was come on his chest – Sherlock’s. His Omega prick was soft in John’s hand. He pulled Sherlock forward and he lifted off John, seed spilling out in a warm, erotic gush. John cuddled his mate close, kissing him. 

“You’re so beautiful.” John told him. “So extraordinary. I love you.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but said, John knew it was true. 

Sherlock smiled up at him. Their sweaty flesh slid against each other, fevered and sticky, not altogether pleasantly. 

John chuckled. “So… we really have to go to Miami.” He asked, brushing damp curls from Sherlock’s brow. “At least it’s not so awfully hot there this time of year.”

“John... John! You are amazing! You are fantastic!” Sherlock kissed him soundly. “You’ve never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable!” 

“Cheers. ... What?” 

“Some people who aren’t geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others.” 

“What have I done that’s so bloody stimulating?”

“ _Hot_! Miami is hot!” Sherlock exclaimed. 

“Yeah?”

“I have to ring the Dade County Medical Examiner right now!” Sherlock cried leaping from the bed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update Wednesday - er... Thursday. Sorry about that.
> 
> John and Sherlock move in together... and another body is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a day late posting! I lost my job back in May and I had a job interview yesterday – only the second in person interview I've managed to score – and somehow forgot all about my little corner of the Omega verse. In any case, I hope you enjoy this chapter – and keep your fingers crossed for me job-wise! Thanks.

Detective Constable Lestrade texted Sherlock the day he and John were moving into the Baker Street flat.

John didn’t have much to shift – some clothes, linens, books, his record albums, laptop, his old telly and some kitchenware. He managed it all in six boxes, his rucksack and a suitcase.

Sherlock was more complicated. John went with him to the tiny place he’d been living in Montague Street and was surprised to find a rather handsome young Beta living there.

“Who’s this then?!” John demanded before he thought better of it.

“Victor. He’s nobody.” Sherlock said, distracted. He walked directly to the makeshift laboratory in the kitchenette.

“You didn’t mention you had a flatmate. Isn’t this a one bedroom?”

“What does it _matter_?” Sherlock snapped.

“You’re the bondmate, innit?” The Beta said. 

“Yeah.” John said feeling confused – through their link, Sherlock projected no feelings about the boy. None of the fear-tinged tension he felt around his family, no dread and loathing as he had with Moriarty, no interest or irritation as with Lestrade and Gregson and the other police, none of the fondness and lust he felt for John. Nothing. 

John was working on letting go of his absurd overprotectiveness. It was easier now that the heat pheromones were fading. Still, his instincts were telling him to get between this person and his mate. They were telling him to threaten the Beta and force him out the door. They were telling him to put a proprietary hand on his Omega and snarl at the outsider. John did none of those things. He cleared his throat. “Ahem... who are you?”

“Victor. Victor Trevor.” The Beta said. “I guess you’re moving in together.”

“Please try not to state the obvious.” Sherlock said without looking up. “It’s tedious.”

“Oh right.” Victor said.

“He’s nobody, John. Mycroft pays him to keep tabs on me.”

“I run errands.” The Beta volunteered. “Make sure Sherlock doesn’t run out of biscuits.”

“I thought he might as well make himself useful if he were going to be underfoot. Where _are_ the biscuits?” Sherlock started opening cupboards. “Aha! John, pack the biscuits.”

“Mycroft pays you...?”

“Probably have to find a new job now.” Victor mumbled.

“That’s a skull.” John said, looking past Victor at the bookshelves.

“Friend of mine.” Sherlock said. “When I say ‘friend’...”

“‘E talks to it.” Victor volunteered.

Sherlock brusquely put the Beta to work cleaning out test tubes and petrie dishes and went to pack something he called his ‘sock index.’

It was late in the day when John carried the last box of Sherlock’s stuff up the seventeen stairs to their flat and collapsed into the comfy chair in front of the fireplace. The skull already decorated the mantle. If Sherlock had unpacked anything else, John couldn’t see it.

He was glad he’d decided to take Dr. Mahon’s advice and take the rest of the semester off – he could have a lie-in tomorrow. 

John was extremely ambivalent about the decision: it was the right thing to do, spend more time with Sherlock now when their bond was so new. They both craved the contact. But John hated feeling like a freeloader. Sherlock was covering all their expenses – John knew through their bond that his Omega didn’t care a whit about money – but John cared. He wasn’t comfortable not being able to pay his own way.

“Sherlock?” John called out. He felt the contented hum of Sherlock’s emotions nearby.

“We need to break in this bed.” The Omega shouted back.

“Food first.” John called.

“What?”

“Food! – this is ridiculous.” He muttered, heaving himself to his feet. “Stop playing silly buggers and…” He trailed off as he entered the bedroom. His mate lay stretched across the bed, his long, lithe body wrapped in a sheet. “Jeeesusss.” 

Sherlock sat up and reached out, drawing John forward. John leaned down and kissed the lovely man, marveling again at how wonderful those full, lush lips felt against his own. He reached down and fondled Sherlock through the sheet, finding his prick and rubbing against it, making a damp spot on the linen. 

His own cock was a firm bar across his hip imprisoned by his jeans.

Sherlock moaned. John drew the sheet back, unwrapping his mate, burying his face against his slender neck, breathing his scent in deeply. It was erotic, how John’s scent had infused his Omega’s. He nipped the pale flesh, tasting sweat and honey. Sherlock leaned into it.

John pulled the sheet free, exposing the pale expanse of his mate’s body, kissing his chest, pushing him down onto his back and climbing atop him. He worried a nipple with his teeth and it hardened in his mouth. John sucked on it, pinching its twin and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

Sherlock gasped and pressed his hips up against John’s, seeking pressure and friction against his Omega cock. John took it in hand – it was perfect, just the right size to suck. John kissed his way down his mate’s belly, pressing his nose into the coarse whorls below his navel. He stroked the Omega’s cock and kissed it, tonguing the glans and licking its length. He sucked it into his mouth like an ice lolly, feeling the tip press against the back of his throat.

Sherlock was moaning loudly, one hand in John’s hair, the other fisted in the sheets. Through their empathetic link, John felt his mate’s pleasure and astonishment – no one had ever done this for him before!

John bobbed, taking him to the root over and over. He rolled the Omega’s vestigial testicles in his hand and pressed his knuckles into Sherlock’s perineum as he sucked. He felt the slick lubrication seeping from his entrance and thought momentarily of trying to stimulate his Omega’s pearl manually. But it was difficult to reach with his fingers and John could tell that Sherlock was not going to last.  
He paused his bobbing to suckle just the head, licking up the bitter pre-cum, then sucked it down again. Sherlock pulled on John’s hair, saying something unintelligible. The Alpha ignored it in favour of increasing the speed and pressure of his mouth on his Omega’s prick. 

With a cry, Sherlock erupted in his mouth and John pressed himself down, forcing the next spurt, and the next, down his throat. He held his mate still, caressing his flanks as he trembled.

When Sherlock’s shudders slowed, and his limbs lay heavily against the bed. John licked his mate’s cock clean, then heaved himself up to kiss his beautiful Omega, careful that the fabric of his clothing not chafe his mate’s lovely skin.

Sherlock hummed into their kiss, laughing when he tasted himself. “You’re amazing, John.” He said, his voice deep and sultry.

John pushed an errant curl out of his Omega’s eyes and kissed him again. “You are.” He drawled.

Sherlock ran his fingers across John’s jeans, down the long outline of John’s cock. John groaned.

“I want to do that for you.” Sherlock told him.

John chuckled ruefully. His Alpha cock was more than twice the size of the Omega’s. “Your cock was made for sucking. As much as I’d love to see your lips wrapped around my prick, it’s not practical.”

Sherlock pouted. “But it felt so good. There must be a way.”

John paused and was about to deny it, but Sherlock had felt the knowledge – the existence of the knowledge – through the link.

“There _is_ a way! Tell me.” He demanded.

“There _might_ be. It probably won’t be comfortable for you.”

“It’s turning you on so much, just thinking about it!” The Omega squeezed the Alpha’s cock and began unfastening his flies. “Tell me!”

“Well... ahem!” Sherlock’s clever fingers had freed John’s cock and started stroking it. “You, erm, would have to lie on your back with your head hanging over the edge of the bed. At that angle, you _might_ be able to take it.”

Sherlock moaned at the thought. “You’d put it in my mouth... shove it all the way down my throat.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, yes, please!” Sherlock said scrambling to reverse himself on the bed, so he could assume the position.

“You’ll tell me if you don’t like it? I’ll stop immediately.”

“Be difficult with your cock down my throat.” Sherlock purred, pushing John to stand by his head. The Alpha moaned.

John ripped his shirt off and shoved his jeans down. His cock was so hard! It was too big and heavy to stand upright, it bobbed out in front of him instead, the fat, damp head pointing at his mate. Sherlock strained towards it and John rubbed it across the Omega’s gorgeous lips.

He took Sherlock’s hand and placed it on his thigh. “If you want me to stop for any reason, pinch me, yeah?”

“Yes, fine. Get on with it!” Sherlock huffed, his excitement and desire sparking through their link.

“Ok.” John said. “Just lay back and relax.” He pressed the head of his cock into his Omega’s mouth and fucked shallowly. Sherlock tugged impatiently on John’s thighs. John pushed himself in farther, and with Sherlock’s unspoken encouragement, even farther until he could feel himself breach the Omega’s throat.

Fuck! He could see Sherlock’s throat bulging outwards, full of his throbbing prick. He choked back a cry and tried to keep himself in check. But Sherlock was still tugging impatiently on his legs. John pulled his cock out until only the head was in his lover’s mouth, then thrust himself forward and buried his cock to the hilt in Sherlock’s throat. 

Sherlock moaned around him. The moan vibrated through his shaft and he almost came right then.

John pulled back and thrust again.

The link made their love-making incredibly intense, Sherlock’s greedy lust inciting John, the way his Omega leaned into the edge of pain, making him harder and hotter, making him want to thrust ruthlessly.

He’d set a deliberate rhythm at the start, giving his Omega a chance to grab a breath with each stroke. But now, John buried his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and pulled as he plunged himself deeply. He was losing himself in the consuming feedback loop of pleasure and desire between them, assaulting his mate’s mouth and throat over and over and over... John’s climax swept through him unexpectedly, a sudden euphoric explosion, and he pressed himself deep for the long, stuttering moments of bliss, pumping his seed down his Omega’s throat with a choking cry.

John remembered himself and pulled out, petting Sherlock’s sweaty face, kissing and praising him, astonished that he was here with this fantastic creature...

They ordered Chinese because it was fast, and John was starving. Sherlock even admitted to slight hunger. They sat on the couch, using the stacks of Sherlock’s moving boxes as a table and devoured the food like locusts. Then John pulled Sherlock into his arms and the bondmates lay down and snuggled together. John passed out almost immediately, the hot, heavy weight of his Omega against his chest calming all his anxieties into a soft stream of contentment.

For his part, Sherlock dozed, half in this world half in another where he and John were swimming hand-in-hand in the ocean, the water warm on their naked skin...

The phone alert roused him. Sherlock reached for it and John woke when he sat up. “What is it?” He asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock told him, already up and buttoning his shirt. “There’s another one.

 

\---

 

Ducking under the police tape, Sherlock was elated to have John at his elbow, a silent support, a guardian and helpmeet. Sherlock needed to concentrate on the work and John’s stolid presence – in their link and in the flesh – was perfect. He felt focussed and sharp.

Lestrade’s DI was at the scene, an Alpha male with an aura of calm, giving orders to his team, forensic techs weaving around them.

“DC Lestrade,” He called. “Your consultant is here.”

Everyone looked up, taking in the tall Omega and his unobtrusive Alpha. Sherlock knew they were tasting his new scent and staring at John. They all knew about the riot – several of the uniformed Betas had been there. Seeing the bondmates now set them abuzz.

Lestrade hurried over. “DI Coleman says you can have five minutes.” He said. “He’s over here.” He led them deeper into the laneway, then around back of a building. There, among the bins, lay the body of a slim teen. The male Omega had had a delicate prettiness that clung to him in death.

“Jesus.” John muttered. “Is he even fourteen?”

“Any witnesses?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing very helpful. Woman across the laneway says she saw a big person carrying garbage around back about 9 p.m., but that’s it.”

Sherlock gently shifted the boy’s leg and found his olive skin marred by injection marks on the insides of his thighs.

“Hormone injections?” John asked.

“Just like the girl.” Sherlock said. “Blood workup will confirm it.” He leant close to the boy’s neck. “Maple sugar.” He said. “With a foreign overlay.”

“The girl was drowned in a swimming pool.” Lestrade said. “The water in her lungs was chlorinated and there was chlorine dried on her skin and hair. What do you want to bet we’ll find the same in his?”

“Immersing them in water washes away trace evidence rather thoroughly.” Sherlock remarked. “He was wrapped in the plastic sheeting on which he’s laying – there was some in the skip as well.” Sherlock examined the young Omega’s fingernails, opened his mouth and then peered into his half-open eyes. “There’s the same chafing on his throat and here, under his arm, consistent with the first victim.”

“Heat harness.” John said softly.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“Heat harness” John looked away from the body and from his mate, a bitter edge to his voice. “Omega prostitutes. They make them wear a leather harness when they’re in heat. It buckles around the neck and there are straps that go under the arms to hold it in place. It covers the scent gland on the back of the neck, so the Omega can’t be bitten and bonded. The leather’s studded with holes though, so the scent is still strong.”

“How do you know that?” Lestrade asked.

“His sister.” Sherlock said. “John’s sister is an Omega.”

“Bloody hell.” Lestrade mumbled.

“She’s… fine now. Well, she’s not fine. But she’s not in a whorehouse.” John looked back at the boy. He knelt and carefully scented the boy’s neck. “Maple.” John said sadly, then he frowned. “And something else.” 

“That strange bitter scent again?” Lestrade asked. “Any idea what that could be?”

“Several ideas.” Sherlock replied. “I have to run some tests.” Then he was sweeping away, startling John, who jumped up and trailed after him.

“Where are we going?” John asked.

“Bart’s. The girl is in the morgue.” Sherlock said tightly. “We can get started tonight.”

 

\---

 

John recognised the morgue attendant, a young Alpha intern John knew from his old neighborhood. 

“Bill.” John greeted him. “How’d you get stuck down here?” Bill’s specialty was the same as John’s, emergency medicine.

“Oi, John! Duberstein reckoned I needed to ‘explore causes of death’ and Dr. Mahon suggested this Trevor*, so I’m down ‘ere doing postmortems. What are you doing ‘ere?”

“Oh, erm, this is D.C. Lestrade of Scotland Yard and this is my bondmate, Sherlock Holmes – he consults for the police. This is Dr. Murray – he was a year ahead of me in medical school.” Bill shook Lestrade’s hand and nodded respectfully at Sherlock. 

“We’re here to see the body of a homicide victim brought in on the sixteenth.” Lestrade told him. “An Omega Jane Doe.”

Bill consulted a clipboard with a thick sheaf of papers attached. He flipped through them. “Drowning? Yeah, I’ll pull ‘er out.”

He led them into an examination theatre and left them, returning a few minutes later rolling a table. The body bag on the table was cold to the touch and Bill winced as he took hold of the metal zipper and revealed the body of the girl.

“I’ll need to take blood and tissue samples.” Sherlock said. Lestrade nodded and Bill retrieved an autopsy tray and samples kits. Sherlock parted the body bag and began scrutinising the body.

“I ‘eard you were bonded.” Bill said in an undertone to John. “You’re the last Alpha I thought would take a dinner plate.*”

John smiled ruefully. “It was… sudden. Yeah.”

“I were in the A&E when they brought the riot injuries in. Real barney* that was. Lots’o strawberry jam. Rex* has it you were there, John.”

“Yeah.”

“Serious!? That were you found the Suzy?*”

“It’s complicated, Bill. But I didn’t just take him. He had his reasons to want to bond and we talked it over.”

“You ‘ad a rabbit* with your ‘ead in pheromone soup?”

“Pretty much. But it was before he was in heat. And you know I can control myself.”

“Yeah, you got the best jammy* of any Alpha I ever met. So… what’s it like?”

“Being bonded? It’s hard to describe, Bill. I feel like half of me was missing before. And I’ve found it and everything is the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Serious?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s an upheaval – had to take time off school, had to move. All my life plans, I have to rethink them now that it isn’t just me. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

“It’s not just the shagging then.”

“God no. I mean, that’s amazing. But it’s so much more. The empathetic link, it’s … I can’t even describe it. He’s over there across the room, but I can feel what he’s feeling – the excitement and the focus…” John chuckled. “The irritation that I’m over here talking to you instead of paying attention to him.”

“You’ve really chucked the Beta birds, John? You’re legendary on the pull.”

John shrugged. “More for everyone else now.”

“Can’t believe three-continents Watson is stepping out’o the ring!”

Sherlock looked up. “Three continents, John?!”

John laughed. “Only if you count Iceland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Bill Murray uses cockney rhyming slang.  
> Trevor = Trevor Sinclair - Nightmare  
> Dinner Plate - Mate  
> Barney = Barney Rubble - Trouble  
> Rex = Rex Mossop - Gossip  
> Suzy = Suzanne Vega - Omega  
> Rabbit = Rabbit & Pork - Talk  
> Jammy = Jam Roll - Control


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update Wednesday!
> 
> Sherlock makes a new friend and John unpacks – moving cartons and his psyche.

Sherlock finished with the body and took the samples to one of the adjacent laboratories. Lestrade took his leave with a mumbled “Text me if you find anything.” John helped Sherlock prepare slides. 

Then John waited. And waited. The third time he woke himself up a second before his face hit the table, he sat down on the floor, leaned against the wall and, closing his eyes against the fluorescent lights, went to sleep.

He woke to voices. John was confused for a moment, unsure where he was, but the calm buzz of Sherlock’s emotions was comfortingly close, so he relaxed. He rubbed his stinging eyes and yawned and remembered Sherlock was running experiments on the first murder victim’s blood.

“Coffee?” He asked, standing up. “I’m running to the canteen. Can I get you anything else?”

“Coffee’s fine.” Sherlock said without looking up from his microscope.

“I’ll bring you a banana.” John decided, smiling at the burst of irritation his mate shot at him.

Carrying two coffees, milk, sugar packets, a banana, a bottle of water, a bacon butty and serviettes proved more difficult than John anticipated. He found himself standing outside Sherlock’s lab, balancing Styrofoam cups, et al, staring at the closed door. He could _feel_ his mate on the other side of the door _not_ helping him.

“Need a hand, Watson?”

“Dr. Mahon! Yes, thank you.” The doctor opened the door for John. In the doorframe, he turned to thank her again and saw that she was with a tall, willowy woman and a teenaged girl. Both had long auburn hair, but the girl had Dr. Mahon’s warm, brown eyes. He could smell the willowy woman’s sweet caramel scent, Dr. Mahon’s musty clove overlaying it pleasingly. The girl must have worn a suppressant as she had no scent at all. She certainly looked like an Omega with her slight frame and heart-shaped face.

“Watson, this is my bondmate, Virginia Hooper and our daughter, Molly.”

“Hi, it’s great to meet you. Erm, would you like to meet my mate? He’s just in here.”

“What a pleasure.” Virginia said, smiling, and John led them into the laboratory.

“Sherlock.” John called, but the Omega was already looking up, surveying the new arrivals. “Sherlock, this is one of my professors, Dr. Mahon, her bondmate Virginia Hooper and their daughter, erm, Molly. This is my bondmate, Sherlock Holmes.”

The teenager gasped when she heard the name and everyone looked at her.

“Sorry!” She said. “It’s just… you… you were the first.” The girl stuttered.

“She means you were the first Omega to go to a real college and university.” Virginia said. She stepped forward and took Sherlock’s hands – he smiled at her as they scented each other. Then they embraced, melting together gracefully. 

“Do you… erm… know each other?” John asked. 

“Yes, John, all Omegas know each other.” Sherlock said scathingly.

“We do now.” Virginia said releasing him. “It’s a delight to meet you, Sherlock.”

“And you.” He said. He turned to the teen. “Where are you going to school?” He asked.

“Ashborn College.” She said. “I want to be a pathologist like my mother.”

“Pathologist?” He looked at Dr. Mahon who nodded. “Can I ask your expert opinion on something?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock leaned close to Molly. “Don’t let the Alphas grind you down.” He said softly. “They’re wrong, you know. You do count.”

She gasped and looked astonished. “How did you…?” She asked.

Sherlock whispered in her ear – John could just make it out. “I’ve been exactly where you are.”

The girl nodded and squared her shoulders. Virginia put an arm around her and Molly cuddled into her mum. They looked charming together, John thought, their auburn hair mingling. 

“I’ve never seen him be so warm with anyone.” John said, careful to assume a non-threatening position.

The Omega smiled at him and nodded at his posture. “It’s OK.” She said. “You’re bonded, you’re no threat to us.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Your bondmate is starved for affection.” She said. “It’s good that he has you now.”

“You can tell by looking?”

“It’s common for orphaned Omegas.”

“Yeah, he said he was young when he lost his father…erm, I have a question, something Sherlock mentioned. He said he could tell if an Alpha was dangerous by scent. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Virginia said. “We all can as far as I know.”

“You smell safe.” Molly told him. “Not just because you’re bonded. I’m glad Sherlock has a good mate.”

“I’m the lucky one.” John said. “Very lucky.” 

“Mother said you were one of her students.” Molly said.

“I am. Are you thinking of going to Bart’s?”

“If I’m accepted.”

“Her Mother’s here. That might make the admissions board more comfortable with the idea.” Virginia said. 

“It’s a competitive school.” Molly said, girding herself for eventual disappointment. “You must be very good to have been accepted here, Mr. Watson.”

“You’re twice as good as the Alphas at your school.” Virginia said fiercely. “She has to be.”

“Mum!” Molly said embarrassed.

John grinned. “It’s true though. We Alphas are lazy beggars.”

“I’ll see about getting time on the TEEM.” Dr. Mahon said, rejoining them. She looked concerned and Virginia picked it up immediately, through their link, clutching her daughter more tightly to her side. “As soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Sherlock said. “John!” And swept past and out the door. John, with a surprised shrug started after him.

“Nice to meet you, Virginia, Molly. Good luck with admissions!” He called as he ran out the door.

 

\---

 

Unpacking Sherlock’s boxes was a herculean task. Not least because Sherlock himself unpacked his violin, put rosin on his bow, tucked it under his chin and began to play... leaving the rest of the unpacking to John.

John had never heard Sherlock play. The Omega had mentioned it briefly during the heady, lust-addled conversation before they bonded, but John had not thought of it since.

He was blown away. 

He had no idea how good Sherlock was, but he sounded like a virtuoso to John. Even more marvelous was how the music reflected and intensified the emotions humming through their empathetic link.

John made tea and shelved books to Mendelsohn, unpacked labware to Beethoven, hung up an immoral number of dress shirts, bespoke suits, silk pants, dressing gowns, pyjamas and a single cashmere jumper to Dvorak, and puzzled over nine cartons of ephemera – a cow’s skull, two chess sets, a crystal decanter, framed maps and a huge framed periodic table, drawing pads and pencils, a small box containing an odd number of identical cuff links, a small box containing human teeth, nine half-empty bottles of scent suppressant, a vintage lamp, a chunk of marble, a harpoon, a sword, a baton, a switchblade, four opened containers of Tesco buscuits, a miniature painting of King George, a cat toy, an antique hypodermic syringe and needle in a moroccan leather case, a slipper filled with tobacco, another slipper filled with rolling papers, four wigs, a trilby, spirit gum, a makeup case, a basket of taxidermic kittens, a bag of sand, a signet ring, three electric kettles, thirteen pairs of sunglasses, personal lubricant, a sheaf of drawings, mostly flowers and plants, but several quick sketches of a child, a luchador’s mask, a Diamond Jubilee memorial plate, a novelty phone in the shape of an American football, eyedrops, a DSL camera, Wine Gums, a stack of miscellaneous photographs, a grinder full of pink Himalayan salt, four .22 gauge bullets, a book with flowers pressed between its leaves, a dusty bottle of wine, a bag of Jordan almonds, seventeen pounds forty in change, a tiki torch, six lighters, a box of matches, a crushed, half-full pack of French cigarettes, an alarm clock, two hammers, a spanner, a screwdriver, an iron, seven elastics, seven bars of incredibly expensive soap, moisturizer, nineteen bottles of hair products, nail clippers wrapped in a flannel, a half empty bottle of paracetamol, three stale joints, a tin of beans, a crocheted afghan, scotch tape, three folded maps of London, one folded map of the Great Britain, a tin of tacks, a clipboard, three cans of spray paint, an autoharp, an extension cord, an electric razor, a woven mat, six pads full of handwritten chemical equations, a very dirty cot blanket, a box of plasters, a stack of newspapers from 2009, a pamphlet talking up the salvation of Christ, fourteen unmarked videotape cassettes, two sets of sheets that felt better than any cloth had a right to feel, an armload of sheet music, a police I.D. in the name of Elisabeth Gregson, two boxes of messily full file folders, an art poster of a human skull, and a game of Cluedo – to Sibelius.

John finished carrying the last box of refuse down to the bins in the alley at half three in the afternoon.

“Lunch.” He groaned, stretching his back. 

“Not hungry.” Sherlock murmured, his bow poised.

“You’re eating.” John said. “You didn’t eat your banana this morning.” He started toast in the toaster and opened a can of beans to heat. He put the kettle on for tea and by the time it was ready, his Omega was in the kitchen poking at the beans.

“Sit.” John urged, setting a pot of jam on the table. He passed Sherlock his tea and watched him spoon sugar into it. He spread jam on toast and made beans on toast and set it all down on the table. Sherlock picked up a piece with jam and looked at it.

“I shouldn’t be eating.” He said. “It slows me down.”

“Food actually fuels your body, Sherlock.”

“You’re a bad influence.”

“I thought I was brilliant – your conductor of light.” John teased. 

“I should be working on the case.”

“Next thing you know you’ll be sleeping.”

“Don’t joke, John.”

John thought of the boy lying among the bins. “You’ve been thinking about the case.”

“Yes.”

“Conclusions?”

“Not yet.”

“But you made progress on the blood samples.”

“Some... 

“Right. What did you find out last night?”

Sherlock sighed and set down the toast. “The bitter odour isn’t a byproduct of the hormone injections. There are indications of a foreign chemical in their blood, a compound... but it had been partially metabolised. I couldn't isolate it.”

“Something about the pool water, then?”

“No.”

John pushed his plate away. “This is Moriarty, innit.”

“Yes.”

“Drowning them in a swimming pool, that’s for us.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck. The pool he took us to…?

“They weren’t drowned there.”

“Are we any closer to finding him?”

“Mycroft has a few possibilities he’s investigating. Budapest maybe. Or Sao Paulo.

John sighed. “And here in London? The brothels?”

“Lestrade’s looking. I have my people on it too.”

“You have people?”

“Homeless network. Eyes all over the city.” 

“Right.” John stared at his lunch, appetite gone. “You told Dr. Mahon to look out for Molly, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” John said. “So what do we do next?”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at it. “I have an appointment.” Sherlock said.

“Oh?” John asked. “On your own?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock bit out.

“I just thought….”

“I’ll text if I’m going to be late.” Sherlock said, his fingers brushing John’s shoulder as he swept passed. 

“Wait a sec.” John said, standing up. When Sherlock paused, John wrapped his arms around his mate. Sherlock sighed deeply and sank into the embrace. “Text me if you need _anything_. Yeah?”

“Yes.” The detective said. John watched him leave feeling the roil of his frustration through their link. 

He looked lonely.

He thought about how Sherlock had looked with Virginia – the only other person he’d seen Sherlock hug. John had felt a bubble of childlike happiness from his Omega when she’d put her arms around him. 

She’d called him an orphan.

By that measure, Harry had been born an orphan. 

Harry. 

Their mother had done her best – and John had tried too – but too often they had been mystified by the tiny, blonde mite. The doctor had simply handed their mother some pamphlets and sent them home.

There had been no older Omega in Harry’s life to guide her, help her, to tell her what she was feeling was normal...

It was strange that there hadn’t been any mature Omegas in John’s neighborhood when they were growing up. He knew at least two other Omega kids born to Betas in primary school. Even if most Omegas bonded into wealthy families, there should have been one or two who mated with the Alpha next door and stayed in the middleclass suburb.

But there hadn’t been. There _should_ have been but there hadn’t been.

If there had, would things have turned out differently? If Harry had had someone like Virginia, would his sister have been as bright and affectionate as Molly? Had John _ever_ seen Harry happy?

He couldn’t remember. John’s earliest memory was of his father yelling at him to put the baby down... and her unhappy cries when he obeyed.

She was only five when their father left. John had been seven, and he had both wanted to please his dad and feared him. He remembered Dad had been proud of John’s skill in sports, taking him to play rugby, shouting encouragement from the sidelines with the other dads. But most of his memories of his father were of a loud, drunken bully who belittled John and knocked him about. 

Dad also shouted at Mum. But he was different with Harry. He had as little to do with her as possible. He hadn’t liked John to have anything to do with her either. John had been his sister’s protector in public, but at home there had always been a distance.

By puberty, all the young Omegas had been separated from the other kids. John remembered Harry’s epic fits of temper at being made to stay at home. Her friends still went to school and to the cinema and to football. But not Harry. Harry stayed home. It was for her safety their mum had explained. Harry’s heats could start, and she had to be kept away from Alphas. Alphas would take advantage of Harry, she told them. Even John had been treated like he was a danger to her.

The shame John had felt – his sister had to be kept safe from _him_! He knew what that implied, and it was disgusting! He vowed never to hurt her and had applied himself to the Alpha control exercises vigilantly.

But John wasn’t there when Harry presented.

Their father, whom they had not seen for eight years, was still Harry’s legal guardian. Their mom couldn’t be – she was a Beta. As long as there was an Alpha blood relative, guardianship wouldn’t pass to a Beta. John wouldn’t be eligible to assume guardianship until he turned 18. None of them had thought anything about it. 

Until Harry’s thirteenth birthday. A group of Alphas had come to the house and showed their mother a contract. Their father had sold Harry’s virginity for 500 quid. John had barely gotten a look at the contract before greedy hands were guiding Harry to the door. 

Mum had rung the police, but John had fought them – and little Harry herself had done a bit of damage – but there were too many of them. John had taken a vicious beating. 

He was in hospital for three days, then home on the couch for four more before he could walk and talk well enough to look for her. His mum begged him to let it be – the cops had told her there was nothing they could do. If they couldn’t help, what could John do except get himself hurt worse?

It took John five agonising months to find her. Every day, he guiltily imagined what must be happening to her – best case, she'd been sold to a single Alpha, had been bonded and bred. John knew better than to expect that.

When he finally did find her, when he wrapped Harry in a sheet and carried her out of that place, she didn’t recognise him. But she didn’t fight him either. They’d crushed her spirit. She passively let him take her home. 

It hadn’t been a high-end establishment. The drowned prostitutes had been treated far better than his sister had. Harry was dirty and emaciated, her thighs bruised purple with jabs. An ill-fitting heat harness her only garment – it had rubbed her neck and underarms raw, infection setting into the open wounds.

John wasn’t sure when Harry started drinking. But liquor was the only thing that brought her out of her room. She was as belligerent a drunk as their father, screaming at Mum and belittling John caustically, blaming him for letting them take her, for not finding her sooner, for being an Alpha…

Harry lived with a Beta woman now. Clara was a nurse 25 years her senior. She was kind to Harry, and that’s all John wanted. He rarely saw Harry now, when he did, she was drenched in scent suppressant, drunk, and wearing a heat harness under an oversized jumper. 

John shook his head, feeling like a complete failure. The dead Omegas had come from a home like his, not a home like Molly’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of table setting this week. I’m super excited about next week’s chapter! Much will be revealed...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's secret is revealed! To the reader, not so much to everyone else.

The security door buzzed, and Sherlock entered the building. He walked up to the topmost floor and knocked.

“It’s open.” 

Sherlock entered the flat and looked around. It was clean but modest with an untidy stack of file folders on the coffee table and the remains of takeaway on the kitchen counter. It was the home of someone who spent too much time at the office.

“In here. Lock up behind you, yeah?”

Sherlock bolted the door – noting the heavy-duty security bar that fit across it – and followed the voice. 

The bedroom had the lived-in look the rest of the flat lacked. Here there were books and a telly, stereo speakers and a comfortable looking setee. The narrow bed had a colourful duvet. It was shoved to one side, making room for a desk with a laptop. There was an industrial filtration system humming in the corner.

Lestrade stood in the doorway to the en suite loo. Sherlock approached and tasted his true scent: a rich, warm treacle. It was attractive and robust and it suited Lestrade so much better than the generic vanilla of a Beta. 

“Amazing.” Sherlock said. “No one has ever suspected?”

Lestrade shrugged, but he looked vulnerable. “Not until you. You’re the first who said anything anyway.”

“How do you do it? Suppressants mask your Omega scent, but how do you convincingly emulate a Beta scent?”

Lestrade gestured for him to come into the loo. “Me mum figured it out when I was still a lad. She’d been using suppressant on me, but I was getting old enough that the neighbors were getting suspicious. The trick is to mix the Beta scent in with the suppressant – here, one drop of vanilla essence, alcohol free, for every ten ounces of suppressant.” He demonstrated with an eyedropper. “You have to use it right away. If you let it sit, the vanilla isn’t strong enough.” He sprayed some in the air and Sherlock sniffed. It smelled exactly like the familiar Beta scent.

“She wanted a way to hide you.”

“Yeah. One of her friends growing up was an Omega. They were close, like sisters. According to mum, her friend had it rough. She wanted me to have a normal life.”

Sherlock started pulling bottles and vials from his pockets, arraying them on the countertop. “Let’s see if we can make an Alpha.” He said, rubbing his hands together with excitement. “Fan.”

Lestrade flipped a switch and the filtration system sucked the lingering vanilla from the air.

“How do you manage personal relationships?” Sherlock asked, beginning to shuffle through the vials.

“You mean ‘how do I sleep with someone without them figuring it out?’” Lestrade asked. “Mostly, I don’t. I’ve had Beta sex – never here, of course. And never more than once with the same partner.” 

“Intelligent precautions.”

Lestrade fiddled with the suppressant bottles. “I’ve been tempted. Some Alphas smell… well, pretty wonderful… but I’d be fired. Never mind I’ve done the job for nine years, they’d give me some shite about my safety. Or worse, make up a special Omega job and stick me at a desk. It never seemed worth it.”

Sherlock unstoppered a vial and sniffed. He made a face and picked up another.

“Then I see what you and John have…” Lestrade continued. “Would you trade with me? If you could, would you trade your bond along with everything shitty about being an Omega for independence and a job you love – but have to hide what you are and never get close to anyone? Would you trade?”

Sherlock set the vials down and faced the policeman. “Until a few weeks ago, the answer would have been a resounding, ‘yes!’ … but give up John… I… I couldn’t.”

“It’s that great?”

Sherlock rearranged the vials on the counter. “Yes.”

“I’m really missing out, is what you’re saying.”

Sherlock turned to him. “Only if it’s the _right_ Alpha. If it isn’t and you’ve given up everything...”

“Yeah.” Lestrade rocked back on his heels, watching Sherlock shuffle through the suppressants. “Yeah, that’s what I thought... they don’t all smell ‘perfect’ Like John.” 

Sherlock shot a glance over his shoulder at Lestrade and observed that the policeman was just about to get to his point. Sherlock waited.

“Right.” Lestrade said. He took a deep breath. “Your brother... is his scent ok?”

“ _Please_ tell me you’re asking for a friend.” Sherlock moaned.

“I’m just... asking, Sherlock.” Lestrade said lamely. “In your experience, is his scent... good?”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft smells sort of the way peaty whisky tastes – it’s not to everyone’s liking, but everyone agrees it’s high quality. My only reservation about his scent... there’s a note that’s... off. It’s not _bad_ , it’s... more …manipulative.”

“Oh.”

“Père thought bonding him with the right person would give him a better perspective – humble him a little. But Mummy doesn’t want him to bond until he’s older.”

“And Mummy has final say?”

“In Mycroft’s world? Always.” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Mycroft needs to produce an heir – ideally two. Alphas, obviously. That will be the main consideration when negotiating a bondmate contract for Mycroft.”

“Contract?!”

“Oh yes. Specifying, among other things, how many children, how much time between children, etc.”

“You don’t have a contract with John, do you?” 

“Don’t be daft.”

“You don’t need to pop out a couple Alphas for the team?” Lestrade teased.

Sherlock stopped sorting the vials and bottles and faced the policeman. “Were I to have children – and you _must_ know the number one cause of death for male Omegas _period_ , is childbirth – were I foolish enough to have children, they would belong to their sire’s house, not my own. Happily, John isn’t of a social class that requires him to carry on the family name, so I’d rather not kill myself populating the world with poor Watson cousins for Mycroft’s kids to feel sorry for – if that’s all right with you.”

“Ouch! Ok.” Lestrade said. “But... but don’t _you_ want a baby?”

“That’s just biology, Lestrade.”

“Yeah, but _is_ it?”

“Oh yes. Yet another facet of our _delightful_ Omega biology – the body craves what it’s poorly adapted to do. We should leave procreation to the Betas, Lestrade, they’re better at it. In a thousand years, there won’t be any Omegas and what Alphas are left will be throwbacks – just smelly, aggressive Betas searching for a connection they’ll never find.” 

“Like me, then.” Lestrade said.

“Lestrade… you would be good for Mycroft, without a doubt. But Mummy would _never_ consent.” Sherlock told him flatly. “You’re too old. Your parents were Betas. You’re male. And, given your job, it’s obvious don’t know your place. My mother is many things, but unbiased is not one of them.” Sherlock took in Lestrade’s posture. “You beat the system, Lestrade. Don’t ruin it for yourself.” He turned back to the suppressants. “Come on. We have work to do." 

 

\---

 

Two days later there was a third body.

Lestrade led Sherlock and John down an industrial corridor past uniformed officers and several of his fellow detectives. John felt Sherlock’s unseemly anticipation and was glad his mate at least looked somber. If his expression was more supercilious than grave, well, John would take it.

They took a footbridge across a canal to a well-used tip, where they waded into the landfill using a trail of boards laid down by the forensic techs. The whole place stank of rot and mould.

The girl was dark-skinned and very slim, her hips narrow as a boy’s. She was completely hairless excepting eyebrows and lashes, her skull the dramatic oblong of an Egyptian queen. Her fingernails had been painted yellow. Except for her height, she looked painfully young.

They stood silently over the body.

“Shut up.” Sherlock snapped.

“I didn’t say anything.” Lestrade complained.

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.” 

“Girls...” John chided. “Go on, Sherlock.”

The Omega knelt carefully next to the body. She had the injection sticks on the insides of her thighs and chafing where the heat harness would have pulled against her skin. Her teeth were white and perfect, her eyes a striking green.

“Contusions on her shoulders.” Sherlock remarked. “They couldn’t hold her underwater by her hair, like the others.” He moved aside. “John, what do you smell?”

John crouched down by the girl’s shoulder and carefully pulled the plastic sheeting back from her skin. He leaned over her an inhaled. “Mgh. I smell garbage. This place is too rank.”

“Lestrade?” Sherlock prompted. Lestrade gave him an aggrieved look. “John is completely trustworthy. You have nothing to fear.”

John looked up and surveyed the two men. “What am I missing?” He asked. Through their link, John felt a complex flutter of emotion from his Omega: irritation, hope, fondness... brotherhood...? Sherlock felt a kinship with Lestrade? Well, they were both detectives...

The policeman crouched and sniffed cursorily. “Nothing.” He insisted.

Sherlock huffed and moved back to the corpse himself. He leaned in as close to her scent gland as he could and closed his eyes as he inhaled. “Icing sugar.” He muttered. “Very delicate.” He inhaled again. “And a hint of bitter sap... an aftertaste. This girl – all of them – they’re attractive, fresh. They would be in demand in a brothel. Killing them is a sacrifice. Why?”

“Look here.” John said, folding back more of the plastic. “There’s something under her fingernail.”

Sherlock was next to him immediately, studying her fingers with his magnifying glass.

“Oi!” Lestrade called. “We need to bag her hands.”

Two techs came and displaced the bondmates next to the girl’s body. Sherlock stood and turned slowly in a circle, surveying the area. It was a vast wasteland bordered on one side by the Thames and distant warehouses and Victorian era tenements on the others.

John stood up beside him. “Think we’ll find witnesses this time?”

“Maybe.”

“You think he’s watching us.” John asked softly.

“Lots of good vantage points if he wanted to watch.” Sherlock observed. 

“Moriarty?”

“Moriarty delegates. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty like this. We need to check out that boat.”

“The derelict?”

“Mm.”

John turned back towards the path of wooden boards. “Is that Mycroft?!”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise and started striding towards him. Despite that, John felt through their link that his mate was delighted to see his brother. That was new.

“Back from Brazil already, brother?” Sherlock purred. 

Mycroft looked distinctly ill-used, standing at the edge of a tip, the mud of the Thames soiling his brogues. “Budapest, Sherlock. We ruled out Brazil, remember.”

“No time, Mycroft.” Sherlock said breezily turning towards the river. “Give the details to D.C. Lestrade.” Then he was stalking away.

“Oh... er...” Lestrade momentarily looked like a deer in the headlights. But he recovered himself rapidly. “Yeah, this way, Mr. Holmes. We can find someplace more comfortable.”

“Less redolent would be fine.” Mycroft snarked.

John had started after his Omega as soon as he saw Lestrade sorting Mycroft. But the last thing he heard his brother-in-law say surprised him so much, he turned back and stared. “Call me Mycroft. It’s Gregory, isn’t it?”

“It’s, erm, just Greg... Mycroft.” 

Neither man noticed John as they started walking back towards the industrial corridor. They were, John saw, almost of a height, and looked well together. He wondered if Mycroft dated Betas... “Sherlock!” John ran after his mate suddenly understanding the mischievous twist he’d felt through their link.

He caught up to his bondmate at the rusted hull of the derelict barge. It was unclear if the barge was part of the tip or if it had simply pulled up one day to take garbage downriver and been subsumed.

“Since when do you play matchmaker?” John asked.

“Lestrade’s feeling broody.” The Omega said, surveying approaches to the barge. “I thought getting to know my brother better would cure him of that.”

“I’m finding it hard to envision your brother on a date.” John laughed.

Sherlock shot him a glance, then grabbed a cable and swung himself gracefully onto the deck of the boat. “He won’t bond for years. You don’t expect him to be celibate, do you?”

“You were.” John pointed out.

“Ahem... not exactly...”

“What?” John discovered that he could not swing easily onto the deck as his taller mate had. “Sherlock...” He protested as he picked his way through the pile to a more accessible part of the derelict barge and climbed up. “What do you mean, _not exactly_?” He asked when he’d gained the deck. “You said you’d never had sex before we bonded.” His own emotions crowded the empathetic link making it impossible for John to know what his Omega was feeling.

“I hadn’t. Just Beta sex. Oh, please John,” Sherlock said rolling his eyes. “I thought you didn’t have double standards. Beta sex is fine for Alphas but not me?”

“No, that’s not... it’s not because you’re an Omega, it’s because you’re... _it was Trevor wasn’t it._ ” John said, thinking of the handsome young man with whom Sherlock had shared the flat on Montague Street. He was jealous. He was ridiculously jealous. “Victor Trevor!”

“Don’t be idiotic, John. It was no one of consequence. I don’t even remember names.”

“You don’t...!”

“Do you remember the names of everyone _you’ve_ slept with, three-continents Watson?”

“That’s not...”

“Hush!” Sherlock held his hand out indicating John be quiet. Then he pointed to a hatch partway down the deck. 

John nodded. “This conversation isn’t over.” He whispered. He crept silently to one side of the hatch whilst Sherlock took the other. The Omega hefted the hatch up and someone exploded from the opening, scrambling across the deck towards the vast expanse of the landfill.

But John was on him before he made it three steps, tackling the shapeless figure to the ground and immobilising him with military efficiency.

“I ain’t done it!” The figure cried. “Lemme up, I ain’t done it.”

“We just want to talk to you.” Sherlock said, holding out a ten pound note where the man could see it. “Will you talk to us.”

“Lemme up.” He squeaked.

Sherlock nodded, and John eased off the man, making a face at the smell. If he had a personal scent, it was hidden under layers and layers of unwashed rags.

Sherlock crouched in front of the seated figure. “Will you talk to us, Auntie?” He asked. John did a double take and saw he’d tackled a gnarled and ugly woman of indeterminate age.

“Omega.” She snorted, her voice rusty with disuse. “S’pose this is yer Alpha.”

“Yes. He’s no danger to you.”

She rubbed her arm where John had held her down. “At’s wot you say.” She looked at Sherlock suspiciously. “You ain’t a copper. They don ‘ave Omega coppers.”

“No, I’m not. Do you know why all the coppers are here?” He gestured at the groupings of white-suited forensic techs and the uniforms at the periphery. 

“S’pose it’s to do wi’ the girl.”

“You saw her, Auntie?”

“Yeah. She an Omega too. Lots o’ dead Omegas.”

“Yes. Too many.” Sherlock agreed. “Did you see who brought her here?”

“Big Alpha, innit. I sawr ‘im. Big Alpha.”

“Big? As in tall?”

“Yeah. And muscles. They all got muscles, Alphas. Like yers ‘ere.” She poked John’s shoulder. “Big.”

“What else, Auntie? What was the big Alpha wearing?”

The woman shrugged. “Brown coat. Rubber wellies. Tucked ‘is trousers in ‘is wellies – didn’t wanna get dirty. Gold ‘air. Not like ‘is.” She pointed at John’s hair. “Yellow.”

“Yellow hair... was it long?”

“No. Real short. Made ‘is ‘boat look all pink. An ‘e ‘ad a fag.”

“A big, tall Alpha, brown coat, short blond hair, pink face, smoking a cigarette, with his trousers tucked into rubber boots. Anything else you remember, Auntie?”

“‘E ‘ad a gun. Sawr it on ‘is belt.”

“A gun? You’re sure?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh yeah. Wouldn’t think ‘e’d need a gun, big Alpha like that. But ‘e carried the girl out into the pile, all wrapped up. Set ‘er down real gentle – thought it was strange, being so gentle. I sawr ‘is gun good when ‘e set ‘er down. Then ‘e unwrapped ‘er an I could see it warnt garbage. After ‘e lef, I went an looked. Pretty Omega. Good for breedin’ even wi’ those skinny ‘ips. Wonder ‘ow she died. Do you know ‘ow she died?”

“We’re trying to find out.”

“Ain’t easy for Omegas. You be careful, son.”

“I will. Thank you for your help, Auntie.” Sherlock handed her the money and it disappeared into her rags.

John followed Sherlock off the derelict barge and up the mud flat away from the river. “Why’d you call her Aunt?” He asked, tasting the complex roil of emotion his mate was feeling.

“You couldn’t smell her?”

“I think I can smell her from here.” John cracked.

“No, her scent – sweet… like molasses or golden syrup. She’s an Omega.”

“You could smell her personal scent through the stench?”

“Of course.”

John was impressed. “If she’s an Omega, what is she doing living rough?”

Sherlock shrugged. “She’s been out here a long time. Maybe she ran away from home. Or from a pimp.”

“What does she do when she’s in heat?”

“I imagine she chains herself up inside the boat. It’s closed up enough that the pheromones wouldn’t travel.”

John took Sherlock’s hand, feeling his need for comfort. “Must be terrible, going through heat all alone.”

“It is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a touch of Mystrade for the aficionados.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crisis pushes John and Sherlock into action.

“You know what’s strange?” John said. They’d gone home after talking to the homeless Omega and John was making tea.

“Mm?” Sherlock was busy sorting through photos of the first two victims.

“Bruises. This girl had bruises on her shoulders… but if they’ve been in heat, shouldn’t they have bruises on their hips? You _still_ have bruises on your hips.”

Sherlock looked up. “They would, wouldn’t they…”

“Maybe we have it wrong? Maybe they weren’t being pimped out?”

“But why else accelerate their heats with the hormone shots? Why else wear the heat harnesses?”

John picked up the coroner’s report, scanned it. “The first girl… she’d been bred.”

“What?”

“This here – this hormone ratio… the shape of her uterus. She’d given birth.”

“It doesn’t say that…”

“No, it doesn’t spell it out – it should, but it doesn’t. But all indications point to her having had a baby.”

“What about the boy?” Sherlock demanded.

John grabbed his file and leafed through it. He found the coroner’s report and began reading. “It’s not as straightforward. His hormones suggest pregnancy, but his uterus doesn’t.”

“Perhaps he miscarried. It’s not uncommon.”

“That would fit.” John said. “What do you think it means?”

But Sherlock had already steepled his fingers in front of his face and retreated into himself.

John sighed and finished making his tea. He should call Harry, see how she was doing. The dead Omegas reminded him so much of her… 

Why were they being killed? It had to be more than just a taunt from Moriarty. Why those specific Omegas?

He remembered the place he’d found Harry. She hadn’t been in the brothel proper – which was good, John didn’t know what he would have done if she’d been in heat – she had been in a sort of makeshift infirmary in a tent behind the building they were using as the whorehouse. He’d gotten lucky, deciding to case the building before going in posing as a client. The tent had caught his attention – it was big and it was new, the only new thing for blocks. And two alphas, a male and a female, in white coats had come out of the tent and gone into the back of the whorehouse.

There had been three Omegas in the tent, each strapped to a gurney. John hadn’t stopped to examine the equipment or the supplies surrounding his sister, he’d simply grabbed Harry and bolted. Bill Murray had taken one of the other Omegas and then gone back for the third whilst John had rung the cops from a public call box and reported the location of the whorehouse. If he’d also happened to say it was on fire, well, he’d wanted to be certain the place would be shut down.

They’d taken the three Omegas to John’s house – by then all three were alert and talking. One wanted to go home, said she’d been snatched from her own backyard. The other had been sold, as Harry had, by her Alpha guardian and had nowhere to go. Both of them, like Harry, were no more than fourteen.

It still turned John’s stomach, to think of those young girls being whored out. Now that he’d experienced heat pheromones he knew that an Alpha could easily lose oneself in the moment. But the moment before that when you saw they were just little girls? And all the moments afterwards when you had to live with what you’d done… it made John sick.

John’s reverie was interrupted by the bell ringing – and then someone pounding on the street door. Before he had descended three stairs, Mrs. Hudson had opened the door and Dr. Mahon was in his front hallway.

Her Omega followed her through the door and both of them looked wild. 

“Watson!” Dr. Mahon cried. “Is your Sherlock here?!”

Before John could answer, Virginia said, “Molly’s missing.”

Mrs. Hudson, wonderful woman that she was, herded everyone upstairs and distracted the guests with offers of tea whilst John quickly gathered up the crime scene photos before the distraught parents could see them. Then, urging John just to call if they needed anything, Mrs. Hudson went back to her flat.

“Sherlock! Sherlock…” John said urgently. When his mate’s eyes focussed, he went on. “Dr. Mahon and Virginia Hooper are here. Something’s happened to Molly.”

Sherlock was alert and standing in an instant. “Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know!” Dr. Mahon said. “She’s just gone!”

“Start from the beginning.” John urged her. “When did you realise she was missing.”

“I went to pick her up from school.” Virginia said. “As I do every day. She waits for me inside and comes out when I pull up in the car. Today she didn’t come out! I went in to look for her, but she wasn’t there. The headmaster wouldn’t talk to me – I had to call Tamsin and tell her that I couldn’t find Molly, and _she_ had to talk to the headmaster on the phone. Then I had to sit down and wait for Tamsin to come to the school before they would even start looking!”

“Bloody headmaster!” Dr. Mahon exploded. “He didn’t want Molly there in the first place. Lecturing _me_ on the proper way to raise an Omega! We went around to all her teachers and no one had seen her since lunchtime. Her afternoon teachers had reported her absent, but the school secretary thought she was just skiving off. Molly would _never do that!_ She knows how lucky she is to be in that school!”

“And she would never go off with Alphas. Not alone.” Virginia added.

“Have you been to the police?” Sherlock asked.

“You warned me to keep her close, Mr. Holmes.” Dr. Mahon said. “You said someone was preying on young Omegas. We came here hoping you’d know where she is? Do you? Can you find her?”

“All right. We _will_ find her.” Sherlock said. “Give John your mobile number and go home – she may still turn up there.”

“I’m coming with you.” Dr. Mahon insisted.

John touched her arm. “Virginia needs you.” He said. 

“Molly needs me!”

“What is it you told me? Don’t be a reckless Alpha idiot – leave that to me, Dr. Mahon. We’ll find Molly. Trust me. Trust _us_.”

For a moment, Dr. Mahon looked like she was going to argue but then she sighed, defeated, and agreed.

John saw them out. He could hear Sherlock on the phone upstairs. Had he rung Lestrade? John ran up the stairs two at a time. 

“John, when your sister was taken, how did you find her?”

“I never told you about...”

“Every time you think about her, you feel guilty and upset. Obvious! John, focus! How did you find her?”

“Don’t the police... or your homeless network?”

“No. No time. Come on, John!”

“All right. All right... but where I have to go... I can’t take you.”

“Alphas only then.”

“Yeah. And, erm...” John sighed, troubled. “I’ll need money. More money than I have...”

Sherlock didn’t hesitate, he had his wallet out and was pressing his cash card into John’s hands. “You’ll be safe?” He asked.

John knew his Omega could feel his anxiety. “Safe enough.” He said. 

“You’ll take your gun.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Text me when you know anything.” Sherlock said. 

“Of course.” John leaned up and kissed the taller man, pressing against his long body, tugging his collar to pull him closer. They lingered over the kiss.... with a sigh John stepped back. “Where are you going?” He asked.

“Bart’s. I have to test something.”

John watched his Omega don his coat with a dramatic swirl. Sherlock looked at him briefly with burning eyes, then ran out of the flat, down the stairs and through the street door.

John listened to the door closing... the finality of the sound scared him. 

He put that thought firmly out of his head, pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He hesitated only a second before placing a call.

“Bill? It’s John... Yeah... look there’s a bit of trouble like I had before, think you can get in touch with your cousin’s friend again? ... no, I know.... I remember ... it’s Dr. Mahon’s kid, Bill... Yeah... I’ll get the cash... Ok, ring me back, yeah?... bye.”

 

—-

 

John grit his teeth. They’d been at the strip club for over two hours, spending money on drinks, tucking pound notes in the g-strings of the dancers and even buying a lap dance for Bill’s cousin. He was surrounded by sweaty, drunk, loud Alphas.

It was repugnant. 

Even if John hadn’t been bonded, this wasn’t the sort of place he’d ever enjoyed. But now… John couldn’t even imagine wanting anyone other than his bondmate. Was it some chemical component of the bond affecting his libido? Was it a function of the empathetic link? Had he simply fallen that in love with Sherlock Holmes? John didn’t know. But it was taking all his acting skill to show enthusiasm for the exotic Beta dancers.

Bill’s cousin – Ellen – punched him and looked pointedly to the bar. Her ‘friend’ – i.e. drug dealer – worked as a bouncer at the club. He not only dealt the usual street drugs, he was plugged in – he knew where to go to buy any kind of drug, illegal guns, and Omega sex.

Bill followed Ellen to the bar to talk to the bouncer. John pretended to be quite drunk and loudly appreciated the talents of the current dancer, a curvy, blonde Beta female taking her clothes off to, of all things, Brian Eno’s _Baby’s On Fire_. Bill had convinced Ellen that he wanted to take John to a whorehouse for his birthday. Now she had to convince the bouncer to tell them where the Omega whorehouse was currently encamped – it moved often and required a contact like the bouncer to give them an address and a pass phrase to get in. 

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Bill slip the bouncer a wad of cash. That had to be the initial drugs purchase (molly and coke, Ellen’s drugs of choice). Now Bill had to bribe the man for the information they needed. 

John ordered another round for the three of them, tipping the Beta server lavishly, tucking it into his waistband with a sloppy leer. The server tolerated it with a tight smile. John bit back the impulse to apologise.

And then Bill and Ellen were back, and John could tell that Bill had the information. Thank god they could get out of this pit!

 

\---

 

Lestrade met Sherlock at St. Bart’s. It was after hours, so Sherlock had been able to commandeer an empty lab. He’d synthesized one batch already and had begun on the second.

“Start with the blue bottle.” Sherlock ordered. “It will get rid of that dire vanilla. Then use the brown bottle and then the red bottle – it's more complicated than Beta scent, Alpha scents have complex hormonal and pheromonal components. Happily, Alpha biochemistry is well understood – the viagra industry alone has done several major studies."

Lestrade peered at the bottles. "Please tell me I'm not spraying viagra all over myself."

"Not per se. Hurry up, Lestrade, I want to see if it works.”

“Where’s John?” Lestrade asked peeling his coat off. 

Sherlock stirred a red liquid in a beaker. “Not here. I haven’t told him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That _is_ , actually, what I’m worried about.” Lestrade said, picking up the blue bottle and sniffing it experimentally.

“He’s 100 percent trustworthy. More so than my brother and you’ve obviously let him have a close sniff.”

“Sherlock, you practically threw us together. What did you expect?”

“I expected you’d come to your senses.” Sherlock sighed. “Don’t panic, Lestrade, Alpha noses are clearly inferior. As long as you continue to follow your current suppressant protocol, neither John nor Mycroft will work it out by scent alone.” 

Lestrade huffed, looking worried. "But your brother can do that deducing thing you do."

"My brother is a master of deduction, but he's hampered by his preconceptions. Mycroft would never expect that a man as independent and self-sufficient as yourself is an Omega. You have nothing to worry about." Sherlock gestured at the bottle. “Get to it.”

“Fine.” Lestrade grumbled and began dousing himself in the suppressant from the blue bottle. 

“That’s good.” Sherlock commanded. “Now the others.”

Lestrade picked up the brown bottle, frowning at the heavy mist it dispensed. "You're sure this isn't going to make me indecent in public? Alpha viagra is powerful stuff."

Sherlock shrugged "Maybe if you drank it. Spraying it on should have no effect on erectile function." He scoffed at the policeman's continued hesitation. "I've used it already." He spread his arms wide to show the lack of effect.

Lestrade grimaced, but emptied the bottle dousing himself. He moved on to the red bottle and began spraying. “Ugh! What is that!?”

“Clay. Good middle-of-the-road Alpha scent.”

“Clay? You mean _mud_. Clay is mud!”

“Clay is clay.”

“Smells like mud. What does yours smell like?”

Sherlock dripped the red liquid into a black bottle with a pipette. “You can smell for yourself in a minute. It’s finished.” He shook the bottle and then sprayed it all over himself, dousing his clothes and body in the powerful scent.

Lestrade sniffed suspiciously. He wrinkled his nose. “What is that?!” 

“Wet leaves. It seemed appropriately disgusting.”

“That’s for certain.”

“It’ll fade – they both will. In about five minutes it’ll be just noticeable enough.”

“Jesus, it’s weird, you smelling like that.” Lestrade said. “Where are we going?”

“John just texted where to meet him. Let’s go!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The place setting is done! Next week, adventures in a whorehouse.
> 
> Eno's _Baby's On Fire_ is amazing, btw. Check it out: https://youtu.be/g5fezBnvkiU  
>  No album from 1974 sounds LESS like 1974 than Here Come The Warm Jets. Absolutely timeless.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, Lestrade and Bill go into the Omega whorehouse.

The address John had texted took them to a café in Shoreditch. John and his friend met them on the pavement in front. Sherlock felt his mate’s confusion blossom as soon as they were close enough for John to scent him.

“Someone hit you!” Sherlock cried, taking John’s face in his hands and peering anxiously at the shiner. “I’ll kill him!”

“Her. And I’m fine.” John assured him. “What... what happened to you?” 

“Your Suzy’s gone Alpha, Watson.” Bill cackled. “That’s a neat trick, innit. The bottle too.” 

“Just a little adjustment to scent suppressants.” Sherlock said – mostly to John. “We’ll be Alphas for the next six to eight hours." The tall Omega frowned in confusion. "You don’t like it.” He observed.

“No, it’s just strange…” John did not sound convincing. “It’s not... you." He scratched the back of his head. "It's all about finding Molly, yeah?”

“You know where we’re going?” Lestrade asked John abruptly, changing the subject. Sherlock saw the tension clenching the policeman's jaw – he was nervous that John would use this new information to suss his secret. He needn't worry, it had never occurred to John that Lestrade was anything but a Beta. “An address?”

“Yeah – you calling in the cavalry?” John asked.

“They’re prepped and ready, just need the location.”

“Good.” John texted the address to the policeman. “It’s just a couple blocks from here. We walked by a few minutes ago. Lots of CCTV.”

“Reminds me.” Bill said, reaching for his pocket. “You two should be elephant’s. Gargle wi’ this.” He held up a pint bottle of whisky. Sherlock took a mouthful and spat it out. He handed it to Lestrade who did the same, then pulled his tie off and spilled a bit on his rumpled shirt. “Butch it up a bit, lads. Walk like an Alpha.” He demonstrated his confident stride.

John snorted. “You look like you got a sausage in your pocket.”

“Exactly!” Bill crowed. “Walk like you got a big’un in yer pirates!

Lestrade snorted and tried on Bill’s walk. It was pitch perfect. "This ain't my first rodeo." He muttered.

“That’s idiotic.” Sherlock observed under his breath. 

“It’s this way.” John said, taking Sherlock’s arm and leading them towards the brothel. “Lot more CCTV than when I was looking for Harry. I found her ‘round back in the garden in a sort of medical tent.”

“Medical tent?” Sherlock asked. “What sort of medicine?”

“I don’t know – an infirmary. I didn’t spend a lot of time looking around, just grabbed Harry and got out of there. From the little she said, they went to the tent in-between heats. She said there were lots of jabs and twice they’d put her under anaesthesia – for some sort of procedure, probably, but she didn’t know what and there weren’t any incisions or anything afterwards.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock said. 

“Anyway, from our quick glance down the block, there isn’t access to the back garden from the street.”

“I would expect them to find a more secure place for the infirmary after you raided it, in any case.” Sherlock said.

“Time to get in character.” Lestrade mumbled. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders and staggered into him.

“Uhm!” John was staring daggers. 

“It’s fine, John. Lestrade’s a Beta remember.” Sherlock said projecting calm at his mate. "We just smell like Alphas tonight.”

John nodded stiffly but didn’t relax. Bill started singing softly and Lestrade joined in. “Come on you two. We’re four pissed Alpha blokes out looking for a good time.” 

Bill punched John’s arm. “Seriously, lighten up John. You’re gritting your corns so ‘ard it ‘urts me.”

“This is it.” John announced. He mounted the stairs of a gimcrack Victorian monstrosity and knocked on the door. “I too love the sandwich.” He said to the tough looking Alpha female who opened the door.

“Cover charge is 50 quid. Each.”

“Whoa!” Bill said. “’At’s bloody robbery, innit!”

Sherlock started to giggle drunkenly and Lestrade poked him. “Shut it, Jimmy.” He said but giggled along.

“I got it, lads.” John announced. He pulled a wad of bank notes from his pocket and counted 200 pounds out. He handed it to the door person and pocketed the rest.

“Come in, gentlemen.”

As soon as they entered, Sherlock could feel John’s Alpha instincts flip into high gear. The pheromones of multiple Omegas must be difficult to contain. He realised that he and Lestrade had to appear as bothered and pugilistic as the authentic Alphas. He shoved Lestrade off. “Need space.” He growled.

Lestrade snarled back. Bill got in the door person’s personal space. “Where are they?” He demanded. “Where’s the Suzies?”

She did not look intimidated – she’d have to be very tough and very controlled (or bonded) to work here. “Bar’s through there. Have a drink and check out the menu.”

They made their way to the bar. There were more Alphas there, and more aggressive hormones – more than Sherlock was prepared for. _He was trapped in a small room with raging Alphas!_ He sat down, trying to calm the rising panic, but all he could think about was the riot. _His back pressed against the wall as the stocky female had torn his coat off and exposed his neck. The feel of her face pressed against his carotid... her teeth... her snuffling nose..._ Cold sweat was pouring down his temples and ribs. _Why had he come here?!_ He couldn't breathe!

And then John was there! Wonderful John, sliding into the chair next to him, putting himself between Sherlock and the sea of Alphas, squeezing his knee. Sherlock took a shaky breath and looked around.

Lestrade was at the bar. _As a cop, he saw the worst of humanity. How did he do it? How did he stand the Alpha onslaught day after day?!_

The copper brought four beers to the table and stood on Sherlock's other side, putting another wall between him and the raging hormones. Sherlock felt embarrassingly grateful. 

Oblivious, Bill activated the iPad on the table.

The iPad contained the ‘menu’ – the Omegas on offer that evening. They crowded around it and Sherlock flipped through the pages. There were seventeen Omegas listed, fourteen currently in heat. All the Omegas in heat had a queue indicated on the iPad – four Alphas in line for this one, one Alpha in line for the next, two Alphas in line for that one. The three not in heat didn’t have a lineup of Alphas waiting, but two were currently engaged. 

Sherlock felt more than heard John's sigh of relief – none of them were Molly.

Sherlock put his name at the back of the longest queue. John and Lestrade signed on for the next longest and Bill had three ahead of him. That gave them some time.

“Give your people the signal, Lestrade.” Sherlock whispered. “John and I are going to have a look around. Bill, when we’re out of the room, start a fight. Something big and distracting. We don’t want anyone to come looking for us.” Sherlock stood up and, pushing by John, staggered out from behind the table. He fixed his eyes on the floor, so he didn’t have to look at all the Alphas. John was directly behind him, a stabilising presence at his back.

“Hey, watch it!” Sherlock had bumped a short female – or she had bumped him. Now she stood in his path, bristling. John prodded him, and he remembered himself. He managed a low growl whilst drawing himself up to his full height and towering over her. Then John was next to him.

“No more brawling!” John chastised him. “I already got punched in the face tonight because of you.” He shoved Sherlock on past the woman who sneered condescendingly and turned back to her table.

“Gotta slash.” John told the bouncer. The bouncer was a large Beta, blissfully unaffected by all the hormones in the room. He indicated a stairwell. 

“Bog’s downstairs.” He said.

John nodded and led the way the bouncer pointed. They clambered down the steps and Sherlock felt better immediately, the stew of Alpha hormones not nearly as strong there. John at his heels, he bypassed the loo and went to the only other door. It was labelled 'employees only' and had a key pad. Sherlock produced a magnifying glass and examined the key pad closely, noting the numbers that had fingerprints on them. He sighed with derision and punched in '2-5-8-0.' The door popped open. It led to a long, dim corridor.

“Place like this should have another set of stairs in the back.” He whispered to John. 

“The infirmary could be down here.” John pointed out.

“Possible but not probable. Look at the dust – all the footprints go to that door which is, obviously, an employee lounge and office... I should look through the office. There could be information on Moriarty…”

“We’ll come back for it.” John said crisply. “Molly first. And those other poor Omegas.”

Sherlock hesitated only a second more, then followed John down the long corridor.

They found the back stairs easily. John started up.

“John...”

John turned around. “We can’t split up.” He said preemptively. “Don’t ask me to leave you alone in this place.

“John, I _have_ to search that office.” Sherlock said. “It’s empty right now, this is the perfect time – before anyone has a chance to destroy files or erase hard drives. You can find Molly.”

“Sherlock! You know what they do to Omegas here!”

“Good thing I’m an Alpha.” Sherlock said stubbornly. “The office is where I’ll find information that will help us track down Moriarty.

John looked like he’d rather lose an arm than let Sherlock go off on his own in such a dangerous place. “Here.” He said finally, pulling his gun from the waistband at his back. He checked the clip, made sure the safety was on, then handed it grip first to his mate. “Take it. We’ve been to the range, I know you can handle it.”

They’d applied for a permit for Sherlock to have his own gun, but – even with Mycroft’s influence – it hadn’t yet been approved. An Omega with a gun was unheard of.

Sherlock took hold of the weapon, but John didn’t let go right away. He pulled his mate close and kissed him. “Be careful.” He said. “If anything happens to you...”

“And you.” Sherlock murmured. John’s fingers stroked his bond bite and Sherlock felt calm and loved. The turmoil he felt from his Alpha stilled for a moment.

“Be careful.” John repeated softly. "If there's any trouble, shoot first, ask questions later." He let go of Sherlock and the gun and with a last searching look, started up the stairs at a jog.

Sherlock crept back down the long corridor. He hoped Lestrade and Bill were causing a big distraction, it wouldn’t be good for the bouncer to come looking for them.

The laptop in the managers office was password protected. It took Sherlock twenty-three seconds of perusing the books, contents of the drawers and the things on the desktop – the millionaire shortbread was the key item – to crack the passcode. 

Then his fingers were flying over the keyboard (which prompted a fond thought of John hunting and pecking) and he was searching through menus, compressing folders and uploading them to his Dropbox. 

There were masses of medical files, all with patient numbers instead of names. In the same parent folder, Sherlock found a chart referencing many of the patient numbers that looked alarmingly like the charts dog and horse breeders used to track lineage. He uploaded those folders and invited Mycroft to download them immediately.

Sherlock had taken a quick trip to his mind palace to look for references to ‘eugenics,’ when he heard someone coming. He quit the web browser, closed the laptop and darted behind the door just as someone came into the lounge outside the office.

“Dylan said a couple blokes went to the bog right before the brawl...”

“Ain’t in ‘ere, guv. Musta gone up an D didn’t see ‘em in the fuss.”

“Go check. If they’re missing, clear the building.”

“Blokes won’t like ‘at, guv. Sommat been inna queue for a couple hours.”

“Get the tasers out first. Give everyone a voucher for admission. Anyone gets too stroppy, tase them.”

“Got it.”

The underling left, and the boss came into the office and sat at the desk. Sherlock was hidden behind the door – the desk was at a 90 degree angle to the lounge, which put Sherlock at 11 o’clock to the boss. He peeked carefully out and saw that he was writing an email. The detective strained to see what it said. Something about Tallinn and someone named... not Moriarty... Moran...

An alarm sounded, gonking loudly. Both Sherlock and the boss jumped. There was thumping and banging from the floor above – the police raid had begun, dozens of uniformed Betas were flooding the building.

“Shit!” The man at the desk swore and he began initiating a full erase of the hard drive. Sherlock needed to stop him – he’d downloaded a lot, but he hated to lose anything!

"Stop..." He began, reaching for John's gun.

There was a distant _pop_ … suddenly Sherlock couldn’t breathe! He cried out, staggered back into the wall and fell, excruciating pain radiating from his shoulder. He saw the boss's angry eyes staring down at him right before he passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, John searches for Molly. But what's happened to Sherlock?!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John rescues the captive Omegas.

John reached the second floor before he encountered another person. An enervated-looking Alpha was pulling a door closed behind him and he looked up just as John came into sight.

“May I help you with anything, sir?” John asked politely, stopping on the landing. His relative youth should work in his favour with the middle-aged businessman, John thought, but he prayed the man _didn’t_ need anything.

“Which way to the bar?” The businessman asked, adjusting himself. John knew that this man had paid to have sex with an Omega in heat – physically unable to do anything but beg for it, despite their revulsion – and bit his tongue. Consent was an illusion, it was _rape_.

He couldn’t even think about how young the Omega might be – probably was. He forced thoughts of Harry firmly to the back of his mind. 

“Take the corridor to the stairs and down two flights.” John said obsequiously gesturing crisply at the far end of the hall. “Can I accompany you?”

“No, no. Not necessary. Thanks.” The Alpha turned away with a self-satisfied look that John wanted to beat off his face.

Instead, he continued up the narrow back stairs more cautiously and hoped Lestrade’s troops put the smug twat in jail.

For a very, very long time.

The third floor was identical to the second and the fourth appeared to house active prostitutes as well. The fifth floor was dim and there were many more doors along the narrow hallway – servants’ quarters originally, and now, possibly, rooms for the Omegas not currently in heat. John tried the closest door and found it locked. He decided to follow the stairs up to the sixth and final floor before investigating further.

The sixth floor had originally been a ballroom – not uncommon in Victorian-era mansions. It was now an infirmary.

It looked similar to the inside of the tent John had pulled Harry out of, right down to the Omegas strapped to gurneys and exam benches divided by curtains. The only differences were the size and the sheer number – there were far more than three here in the cavernous room. They wore thin hospital gowns over their nudity, and several weren’t wearing heat harnesses. 

John could see at least ten from where he stood in the stairwell. He crouched down behind some equipment and crept into the large room. A man – a Beta in a white doctor’s coat – was standing over one of the Omegas. John couldn’t see if the subject was male or female, but he heard muffled sounds of protest as the Beta help up a large hypodermic.

John didn’t hesitate – with a surge of fury, he launched himself at the man tackling him to the floor. The needle went flying. The Beta was fast, catching his breath and trying to squirm away from John as he scrabbled to hold onto him. John had learned his fighting skills largely on the street and the rugby pitch, he had no qualms about fighting dirty. He got his hand hooked over the Beta’s belt and hauled him back, kneeing him in the groin. The Beta whined and tried to curl in on himself – John straddled his chest and landed a solid punch on the man's mouth.

The Beta recovered himself quickly. He got a hand around John’s neck and John had to break the hold, giving the man the opportunity to try to wriggle out from under him again. John dragged him back and they grappled, overturning a rolling equipment trolley with a deafening clatter. John took a hit to the solar plexus that sent him gasping. His aggressive instincts surging, he grabbed handfuls of the Beta’s hair and slammed his head against the floor, once, twice, three, four, five times until the man went limp and lay still.

John leapt up, adrenaline pumping, and began to unstrap the Omega. She was a zaftig blonde and had multiple injection bruises on her thighs already. 

“I’m bonded – you don’t have to be afraid of me.” He told her, told them all. “I’m here to get you out. What’s your name?” He asked as soon as he had her gag off.

“Birgit.”

“I’m John. Can you help me free the others?”

“Yes.” She was shaking – terrified John realised. Not only was he an Alpha, she had just watched him beat a man into unconsciousness.

“Police are on the way. Betas.” He helped her to stand up, keeping his touch professional. “Can you unstrap him?” John gestured at the Omega on the next gurney.

“Yeah.” She said, steadying herself. “Cheers.”

John nodded once and moved on to the next bed. “Molly!” He cried. 

The young Omega looked at him with incomprehension. She was battered, her face shadowed with bruises, her eyes red. She’d been strapped to an exam bench with cruel disregard for comfort, the leather restrains digging into her flesh. Her feet were strapped into stirrups, holding her legs apart – she’d been prepped for some kind of procedure, John realised. There wes blood on the inside of one thigh, the result of careless jabs. John didn’t want to know what they’d injected into the girl.

John quickly detached her IV and began unbuckling her restraints. “Molly? Molly, can you look at me?” She’d been drugged and although semi-conscious, her eyes were unfocussed. 

John cursed under his breath and grabbed a folded sheet from a shelf and wrapped it around the girl. He picked her up gently in his arms and carried her to the center of the room. "It's going to be OK, Molly." He reassured her softly.

“Sir...?”

John looked up. A young man stood nearby, trembling, ready to run. He looked older than most of the Omegas John had seen thus far, maybe eighteen or nineteen. He was breathtakingly beautiful, his tousled raven hair and pale skin reminding John achingly of Sherlock. 

But this boy was thin and wasted, his ribs prominent, and his stick-like arms bruised from IVs and bondage. He wore a black heat harness that must have been fitted when he was healthier, it sagged from his neck and shoulders. He swayed a little, unsteady on his feet – from disuse, John realised, the young man had been restrained to a table for far too long. The cruelty of it made John furious. 

“Sir... erm... I can take her.” Despite his frailty, there was a strength about him, a determination.

“I know her.” John explained. “Her mothers sent me here to find her. I’m getting you all out.”

The boy nodded. “You’ll need your hands. There are more of them.” The Omega nodded at the doctor bleeding on the floor.

John took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “What’s your name?” He asked.

The boy looked wary. “Alfred.” He said. 

John nodded. “Alfred, I’m John. John Watson. How many more of them are there?”

“Four medical. A lot more security... at least ten.”

“Ok. Thanks, Alfred. I, erm, do need you to hold her – here.” John stepped towards the Omega and he flinched violently. But he controlled himself and allowed John to approach. “Maybe sit down with her until everyone is free.” John suggested, nodding at a chair. 

Alfred sat on the very edge of the chair and John laid Molly in his arms. She was restless now, coming out of the sedation. “You’ve got her?” John asked.

Alfred cuddled Molly and she melted into him, her face pressed in the notch between his neck and shoulder.

“Wait here, yeah?” John said. He went to the next gurney and freed the girl there and then the next. Though weak and frightened, all the young Omegas worked hard to release their fellows, and the work went quickly.

John started on another Omega, pulling her gag off first. “I’m John, I’m here to help you. What’s your name?” He asked the small, dark girl with thick, straight fringe over her black eyes. 

“Suki.” She said. “Thought you’d never get to me.” Her eyes flashed with challenge and John grinned at her, happy that at least one Omega retained her spirit. She grinned back and hopped off the exam bench.

“Help me with the next one?” He asked.

“Yeah, you bet.” Suki replied gamely. She led him to the next gurney, the one closest to the front stairs. Suki began tugging at the straps holding down an extremely young girl with a head full of long tangled ringlets and a heat harness digging furrows into her neck. 

“I’m John.” He told her. I’m here to help you. What’s your name?” The girl cringed from him, trembling.

“This is Arabella.” Suki told him. “She’s quite new. Come on, Belly, I’ll help you down.” The younger Omega clung to the dark girl.

Suddenly there was a commotion. “What’s going on here!?” Called a stentorian voice with a flat American accent. There were screams from some of the Omegas and a scramble away from the voice. Arabella squeaked in alarm – Suki had a hand over the girl’s mouth and was pulling her down under the gurney in an instant. 

John turned towards the American but Alfred bumped into him as he attempted to scuttle for cover, Molly clutched against his thin chest. Thus, John was off balance when he spotted the Alpha. She was tall and sturdy in her white doctor’s coat and her scent was virile – horse sweat and leather saddles. John ducked behind a curtain, pulling Alfred and Molly with him, as her gaze swept his way, but the group of crying Omegas fleeing towards the back stairs had her attention.

John pushed the two Omegas behind him and flexed his hands anticipatorily. He thought he could catch her by surprise as she walked past. But the Alpha stopped suddenly. She’d found her colleague that John had beaten unconscious.

“I smell you, Alpha.” She called. “I’ll find you.” She stripped off her white coat revealing muscular arms and an ornate Semper Fi tattoo.

“Bloody hell.” John said under his breath. He tapped Alfred and waved him back and down. The Omega pulled Molly behind an equipment trolley.

John took a deep breath and stepped out to face her, dancing on his toes a little. John knew how to fight. He'd grown up in a rough neighborhood and as a short boy, had had to fend off bullies from an early age. By the time he presented when he was thirteen, he was well-versed in street fighting – it served him well in the inevitable fistfights that broke out amongst hormonal, young Alphas. He had earned a place near the top of the unofficial Alpha pecking order at his school. 

He’d also played unrefereed rugby for years, wrestled all through college, taken mixed martial arts classes and been through hand-to-hand combat training in the RAMC. John could handle himself in a fight.

But the American Alpha moved like a cat, graceful and deadly. She was at least fifteen years John's senior, whilst his youth might benefit him, her extra years meant she had more training than John and more importantly, as a U.S. Marine, had had a lot more fighting experience. Had Sherlock's poncey brother been there, he would have said the 'balance of probability' lay with her beating the tar out of John.

They circled each other. John studied her for weaknesses... she was taller than he with a few extra inches of reach, but at least she didn’t outweigh him. As a male, he should have superior strength – but her training could negate that. 

John hoped he was faster. 

“Mmm, just a little Alpha. What are you doing with my Omegas, little Alpha.” She asked in her flat American accent.

Was she underestimating him? John hoped so. “Do you prefer ‘Jarhead’ or ‘Leatherneck?’” John asked, purposely leaving his dominant left side open for her attack. 

“I prefer ‘doctor,’ little Alpha.” She sneered. “Or Sergeant.”

“Sergeant Jarhead? Doctor Leatherneck?” John taunted. “I suppose it has a nicer ring than Doctor Mengele. But you’re still a sick fuck.”

She laughed – and attacked! 

She was quick, darting towards him and unleashing a series of jabs and hooks. John danced around her with fast footwork, swerving sideways to avoid the first few punches, feigning weakness in his left leg, dragging it slightly. She fell for it as he'd hoped, going for his left side, kicking out hard, John blocked the attack, let the Alpha’s ankle slip up under his armpit, and pushed her knee away where it hung suspended in the air. The American lost her balance and fell to the floor. Still holding firmly onto her leg, John landed a solid blow to her head. And another.

Grunting, she got her other foot against John’s chest and shoved hard, breaking his hold. John cursed aloud, but before she completely regained her feet he pressed his advantage with a roundhouse kick and a jab. The kick caught her on the chin, but she recovered in time to deflect his jab. She bore down on him with a flurry of punches. John deflected and blocked, but she was relentless, a juggernaut of fists and kicks. He took a hard right hook on the side of his head, and the unexpected force made John stagger. He crouched down, one leg extended behind him to keep his balance.

The former marine showed her training, pressing him hard, kicking out. John deflected, but barely, jabbing at her face. She ducked away easily. 

“That all you got, little Alpha?” She teased. “I’ma eat you for lunch.”

John didn’t bother answering.

They circled each other again. She attacked with a pair of fast, head-on punches that John blocked with less ease than he liked. She swung again, her powerful fist hurtling towards his head. John dropped into a crouch, using the momentum to swing his leg around and sweep the American’s feet out from under her.

The Alpha tumbled to the ground, but rolled herself over her shoulder easily and popped back up onto her feet. She lunged at John, leading with her knee. John barely blocked it using both hands, only to feel the American’s hands on his head. Her other knee caught him on the chin. The blow hit John hard, and he reeled. He struggled to maintain his balance, but a roundhouse kick dropped him.

She was on top of him immediately, pummeling his face. John twisted his torso and tried to dislodge her from his chest, bracing his feet. He managed to get an arm under her leg, but it left him open to her fists. She scored an uppercut that rang his bell. 

John was seeing double – her fists kept connecting with his face and all he could do was try to hide behind his arms. She screeched in triumph as she got her hands around his throat and began to squeeze. John struggled... he hit out, palm-punching her in the nose and chin. He tried fumblingly to push her away, but she never slackened her hold. Black spots began floating in front of his eyes...

It would all be over soon...

A great crash sounded and the Alpha tumbled off him. John gasped in great lungfuls of air as he scrambled to his feet. Suki stood on the far side of a gurney that she had run into the American doctor as hard as she could. She slammed it into the woman again and again – but the Alpha grabbed the gurney and overturned it.

"I'll kill you, Omega!" The American brayed.

“Run, Suki.” John cried.

Roaring with rage, the American doctor leapt at John, raining blows down on his head. He took more than a few hits, struggling to do more than defend himself. He was tired and weakening... with the last of his strength he grabbed for her arm as she jabbed... and caught it easily! 

She'd thought she'd already won. She'd underestimated him. 

Using the momentum of her punch, John twisted her arm over his back, throwing her to the floor. She landed hard, the breath knocked out of her – that gave John the second he needed. He kicked her in the head before she could start to get up and she dropped with a moan. He stomped and kicked her over and over and over until he felt her skull turn soft under his boot.

“John... John...” It was Alfred, keeping several metres between them. “John... everyone is free.”

John took a deep breath and forced himself to step away from the Alpha. She was dead, he was certain, and that gave him an unwelcome surge of triumphant joy. He wanted to shout his victory, advertise that _he_ was the strongest Alpha. 

His adrenaline and his base instincts had made him forget the Omegas whilst he fought – forget everything _but_ the fight. John started counting his breaths to center himself, going back to the most basic control exercises he'd learned. Alphas fought – they were hardwired by millennia of evolution to compete with each other violently for food, resources, Omegas... The fact that they no longer needed to fight each other to survive didn't change their hormones and instincts. Young Alphas were channeled into sport and the military, they were rigorously taught to control their base instincts, to rise above them. But still, Alphas fought. They fought with their fists when they were young and if they were smart, they learned to channel the competitive spirit into athletics or business or finance...

John opened his eyes and saw Alfred still standing warily nearby, Molly clutched in his arms like a shield. The boy smiled at him tentatively... John swore internally – he had fought and beaten another Alpha, an Alpha who had _owned_ these Omegas. Their instincts would now be telling them to bond with John. That was a complication he had never considered. He cleared his throat, turning to survey the young Omegas. Their wide, round eyes stared back at him with a combination of fear, hope and admiration.

“Thanks, Alfred. Erm... are there more of you on the fifth floor?” John asked the young man, changing the subject of his thoughts and hopefully theirs. “Looked like a lot of small rooms.”

“Yeah, they lock us in.”

“We’ll have to get them out too.”

“Where will we go?” A girl with flaming ginger hair asked in a small voice. John’s heart broke for her – it was very possible her parents had sold her into prostitution and she had no home to go back to. A century ago, she would have gone home with John. But then, a century ago, a bonded Alpha would not have fought for other Omegas. And Omegas, whilst chattel, had not been gathered together, trafficked and sold over and over as these had been.

“Somewhere safe.” He told her. 

She stared into his eyes a moment, both tremulous and shrewd. She must have seen what she needed, she nodded.

John gathered them, a group of fragile young Omegas in hospital gowns, none looking completely steady on their feet. All of them had arms around another, clinging together, all of them looked frightened. They were both wary of John and attracted to him like moths to a flame. He did his best to be non-threatening – an impossible task after what he'd done to the American doctor.

“I’ll take Molly on the stairs.” John told Alfred. The girl was holding up her bright auburn head on her own now, but her eyes were still unfocussed. John carefully picked her up again – with the adrenalin still surging through his system she weighed almost nothing.

“Down the back stairs.” He directed. “We'll get the others, then we’ll go.”

“But they’re locked in.” Suki told him.

"Right... yeah. Suki... hey, thanks for what you did. It was brave – and it made the difference, yeah." John told the girl. She smiled shyly and ducked her head – not, John was happy to note, with admiration for him, but pride in herself. “Do you think she has keys for downstairs?” John asked gesturing at the American Alpha doctor with his chin. “Or him?” He meant the Beta he’d beaten unconscious.

Suki shrugged, flinching away from the Alpha's corpse. She and Alfred began searching the Beta’s pockets. Alfred pulled a ring of keys from his trousers.

“Brilliant.” John said, smiling at the handsome boy. Alfred glowed, smiling back shyly. John turned away, embarrassed.

“What about... what about the others...the ones in heat?” Alfred asked.

“Police are coming – Betas. They will help them, I promise. No one will be left behind.” John reassured him, reassured them all. “Come on, stick with me.” Cradling Molly, he led them out of the ballroom/infirmary, down the back stairs to the fifth floor. The corridor was empty. 

“Alfred?” The Omega boldly stepped up to John. “She’s almost conscious.” John observed. Can you hold onto her again?”

“Yes.” John placed Molly gently into Alfred’s keeping and took the keys he proffered. He tried the keys on the closest door. It opened for the third key. There were four young Omegas inside, a little cowering clump clutching at each other.

“Birgit, Suki.” John called them forwards. “Get them moving, ok?” The group in the room looked exceedingly relieved to see the other Omegas. John overheard Birgit telling them, “The Alpha fought Dr. Mong and Doctor Morstan, and he won! He's taking us someplace safe.” John didn't know how to counter the misconceptions that he may have inspired. He left it, moving on to the next door, and then the next, letting freed Omegas help their fellows. Quite a few were sobbing with terror and hope.

“John...” It was Alfred. “She’s awake.”

John went back and knelt in front of Molly Hooper. “Molly?” John asked. “How are you feeling?”

“Dr. Watson?”

“Yes! Your mums sent me to find you. Are you ok?” 

Molly flung herself into his arms and hugged him fiercely. “I thought... I thought... I didn’t think I’d see them again...” she hiccuped, tears on her face.

“Your mums are waiting for you, Molly. We’ll call them as soon as we’re out of here. “Are you hurt?”

Her lower lip trembled. “Just jabs... they... they tied me down, I couldn't move, I couldn't stop them... then they gave me something and I couldn't stay awake.”

“Ok. You’ll be just fine.” John assured her, hoping it was true.

The other Omegas – over forty now – relaxed slightly when Molly recognised him. Most of them must have had an Alpha family member or childhood mate who had protected them, they understood that. John was a friend. He wasn’t like the Alphas who just wanted to imprison them, inject them with god knows what, rape them... and he wasn't the Alpha who would bond with them.

John moved to the next door, unlocked it...

...a low hum of fear from Sherlock bled through their empathetic link... John hadn’t thought about Sherlock whilst he fought – but the adrenaline seemed to have shielded his mate from feeling much of it. But now he was afraid... John cursed himself for leaving Sherlock alone... not that his Omega couldn’t take care of himself – but these people were serious! And Sherlock could be reckless...

Sherlock wasn’t injured, wasn’t in trouble, not yet... but his fear was distracting. John felt a primal need to run to his mate, help him...

John _had_ to set it aside. He _had_ to get the Omegas together and get them to safety – he couldn't leave them alone to be recaptured or worse! As soon as they were safe, he could go find Sherlock... but he had to hurry...

As he unlocked the last door, an alarm sounded. “That’ll be the police.” John announced before panic could set in. “Time to go – Alfred, Birgit, Suki, bring up the rear, yeah? Make sure no one gets left behind. All right let’s go.” John, helping a still-unsteady Molly, started down the main stairwell – it was wider, and John wanted the group out of this house and securely with the police as quickly as possible.

They ran down the stairs. At the third floor landing, they ran right into a big group of coppers, thundering up the stairs. 

“Oi!” John called. “I came in with Lestrade – get these to safety, yeah?” He waved the young people to go with the cops and stood back. Molly huddled into his side, clinging to his arm as John counted the Omegas rushing past. They went in twos and threes, holding hands, arms around each other, shrinking from even the Betas’ touch. “42... 43... 44... Suki, anyone else? No – just the Omegas in heat. They’re on the second, third and fourth floors. Might be Alphas with them.”

The policeman nodded her understanding and issued orders to her people.

“Tell them...” John gripped the copper’s arm. “Tell them Sherlock’s in the basement, there’s an office. You need to secure files and computers.”

She nodded crisply, trotting after the Omegas, muttering into the radio at her collar.

John tugged at Molly, moving to follow her down – he couldn’t help with the Omegas in heat, even bonded, he needed to be out of here when they opened those doors...a nd he needed to get to Sherlock!

He heard the tattoo of footsteps pounding down the stairs behind him... 

John turned... Molly screamed. 

The Beta doctor from the infirmary ran towards them. His face was bruised and bloody, but all John could see was the gun in his hand. John shoved Molly behind him, thinking how glad he was that he’d got the other Omegas away from this evil person... the gun went off... Molly screamed... 

It felt like he’d been punched in the shoulder, but with an iron bar. A donkey kick. He was on the ground before he knew what had happened, before the pain hit... he saw Molly’s face... there was blood on it...

“Are you hurt?” John tried to ask. But it didn’t come out right. He couldn’t hear himself over the screaming. 

As he lay on the stairs, John felt his bondmate’s confusion, his pain. He tried to reach out, reassure Sherlock ... but the world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we discover what happened to Sherlock.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has been abducted!

Sherlock woke in pain.

John was alive. Sherlock sensed his wildly careening dreams – they played out in his mind, more real than his own discomfort, than the chill that invaded his core... his father was drunk. John's father was always drunk. He screamed at John... Alphas came to the house, strange Alphas. Arrogant Alphas. John had presented less than a year before and these Alphas invaded his territory! John faced them steely-eyed... His father shouted at him – John was little again, just a child – "You stupid little shite! Good for nothing shite!" He hit John, backhanded him to the floor. John was only six, but he fought back and his father punched him in the gut. He lay on the kitchen floor gasping desperately for air... Molly, tiny and young, struggling against the strange Alphas, she bit one, drawing blood. John tried to help her, but the strange Alphas held him back. He struggled and fought with all his might... but he could not get free... Molly with blonde hair and John’s blue eyes, battered and slack, with a leather contraption strapped around her neck and upper arms... an army of Mollies all battered and slack, cringing from John’s helping hand. Never good enough... "Good for nothing little shite!...

Sherlock struggled to feel his own body. He found his pulse with frigid fingers, it was sluggish. He raged – his body was shutting down... dying... John was dying... oh god, that hurt worse than the sharp, drilling pain in his shoulder...

Where was he? He needed to take stock. He needed to get to John!

An agonising jolt. Sherlock cried out, the sound echoing. It was dark. Vibration… movement... he was moving... hard, cold metal under his hip and arm, his leg... he lay on his side in the back of a lorry.

He wasn’t in the brothel. He remembered the office, downloading files, hiding behind the door... then the sudden, agonising pain...

A moan.

Sherlock wasn’t alone. He tried to reach out, but he was lying on his good arm. He prodded forward with a foot, found a warm body a few inches away. He tried to scent the body – but there were so many odours in the enclosed space, not least the vile dead leaves smell emanating from himself. He shifted towards the other person, fuck it hurt to move! 

_Stupid, little shite!_... 

Clay.

Clay! Sherlock recognised the Alpha scent he’d synthesised for Lestrade. He took a deep shuddering breath. He was embarrassingly grateful not to be here alone... but Lestrade, that worried him. Had they been taken because they were Omegas? Had Lestrade been found out, somehow? Would they be strapped to tables, injected with poison, experimented upon, becoming battered and slack... 

That wasn't his memory... that was John's... he had found them...

It was a comfort, in the cold, black interior of the vehicle, that John had found the captive Omegas. He was taking them to safety – _had_ taken them to safety. If nothing else, John had succeeded. They were safe, the Omegas... so _many_ Omegas...

 _Molly, battered and slack... father punching him in the gut... gawping on the kitchen lino, struggling to breath... struggling to free himself to fight the other Alphas_...

Sherlock fought to drag his thoughts back to himself, to the jouncing lorry and Lestrade... They both still stank of Alpha, there was no way they had been identified as Omegas by scent. If they hadn't been abducted because they were Omegas, why had he _and_ Lestrade been taken? Hostages? No – information. That was more likely. They’d want to know what Sherlock had found in the office and what the police knew – and how they knew it. 

Their false Alpha scents would last eight hours at the outside. He’d say six to be safe. How long had it been since they’d doused themselves? Did he still have his phone? He doubted it, but he had to check. He rolled carefully onto his back, gasping at the pain... _father_... meaning to check his pockets _Molly screaming_... but there was something digging into his spine, not letting him lie back...

The gun! John’s gun!

Sherlock had to get to it! He reversed direction, rolling onto his stomach. He encountered Lestrade, found himself pressed against the other man. John wouldn’t like that. Sherlock giggled, hysteria tearing at him... 

He got his good right arm free and struggled with his long, heavy coat – probably responsible for the gun still being in his possession – working his hand inside his Belstaff... his fingers touched the hard surface of the weapon... he scrabbled at it, pulling it awkwardly into his numb hand...

Lestrade moaned woozily. “...ooohhh... My... My...”

“Wake up, Lestrade!” Sherlock demanded, trying, gun firmly in hand, to roll himself off the policeman and sit up.

“Mycroft?”

“You are _not_ calling out for my brother! Please tell me.”

“Oohh... bloody... Sherlock?”

“Correct Holmes.” He replied archly.

“What bloody happened?” In the blackness he heard Lestrade shifting and rolling.

“Not certain.” Sherlock informed him. “John was hurt, not fatally... not yet... and we are in the back of a moving lorry.”

“Oh... shite...” 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Sherlock asked.

He heard Lestrade breathing, groping around. “Erm... ouch! Bloody hell! ... er... Bill started a fight... I was trying to stay out of it... don’t like Alphas touching me... oohh...” He swallowed audibly. “Police came in the front... broke down the door... there was an alarm... bloody deafening alarm...” Lestrade panted. “Is there water?” He asked.

“No.” Sherlock told him. “Do you remember anything else? Try, Lestrade.”

Lestrade sighed heavily. “My head hurts.” He mumbled. “Erm... Lieutenant Paul was going downstairs... followed them... saw... someone... down a long corridor... heard a door... I ran after him... that’s it. That’s all I remember.”

“They must have grabbed you then. Put us both in here.”

“You said John was hurt?” Lestrade’s hand patted at him, grasped his leg and clung. “Is he ok?”

“No.” Sherlock said curtly.

“You?” Lestrade slurred. “How are you?”

“In pain… my shoulder… can’t move my left arm…”

“Bloody hell...”

“I’m... I’m struggling to stay alert.” Sherlock admitted. “If I can’t... I have a gun... right pocket – coat...” Sherlock put his hand over Lestrade’s where it encircled his calf. “You'll have to take it. Kill them if you can. Get us out of here.” 

_Stupid, little shite!_... the world was receding from his grasp... Lestrade fading...

“Sherlock?! Sherlock...?”

 

—-

 

John floated upward, his head slowly pushing against the surface of the water. The water resisted, it stretched... finally it tore and grudgingly gave him up to the air. 

His eyes were filled with water. His head was filled with water.

John was surrounded by gargoyles. They chittered and groaned, made hideous faces and gyrated. Some of them were purple.

He was 70 percent certain he was hallucinating. The gargoyles loomed over him, their clawed fingers piercing his body, stirring his guts into a bloody mass.

“Molly...?” He managed. His mouth was dry. That was strange... all that water...

“The child is fine.” A gargoyle said. It sounded irritated. “Sherlock. Where’s Sherlock?”

John stifled a giggle. It wasn’t funny. Gargoyles couldn't talk. It wasn't funny.

“Where’s Sherlock!?” The gargoyle demanded in Mycroft’s angry voice.

John concentrated hard. Sherlock... he felt him. Sherlock was in pain – that filled John with a depressed rage. He wanted to leap up and race to his mate's side, protect him. But he couldn't move – the gargoyles held him down with their evil talons. 

"John! Where is Sherlock?!"

John didn’t know where his mate was. That worried him immensely. "In the dark..." Sherlock should be here with him! But he wasn't alone, at least he wasn't alone. The presence of the other was comforting. “He’s with... Lestrade...” He managed.

“Greg?” The gargoyle with Mycroft’s voice sounded shocked. “Greg’s with Sherlock!?”

John wanted to answer, but the water rushed up and closed over his face, entombing him in heavy blackness...

 

—-

 

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” Someone shook him. It was startlingly painful.

“Stop...” He muttered.

“Sherlock! We’ve stopped! Wake up!” Someone slapped him, hard. “Wake! Up!”

Sherlock groaned. “I’m awake... Lestrade...” He slurred. He forced himself to sit up and touch the gun in his pocket, make sure it was still there. “I’m awake.” He sagged against the policeman. The other Omega's arms supported him. Sitting up, Sherlock's head cleared a little.

The lorry's engine turned off and abruptly he could hear voices, car doors opening and closing. Adrenaline surged through him, his heart beat faster and Sherlock felt some strength flow into his limbs.

“When you can see," Sherlock whispered to the policeman. "Find out the time. We’re Alphas for six to eight hours... need to know how long we’ve got left... remember, I have a gun in my pocket.”

The back of the truck slammed open loudly. The moon was bright, and Sherlock squinted, vainly trying to see their backlit captors. One was very big, broad and tall... 

He thought about the old Omega Auntie on the derelict barge... _“Big Alpha, innit. I sawr ‘im. Big Alpha.”_

The big man stepped closer. Sherlock made out his blonde crew cut and his pink eyes. His eyebrows were so white-blonde they disappeared into his pale skin. He looked alien.

The Alpha grabbed him by the left arm and yanked him from the truck. Sherlock wailed in agony, his shoulder exploding. He stumbled and almost fell to the pavement, fainting with pain, it was only the iron grip of the the big Alpha that kept him upright.

“Shut up!” He growled, shaking Sherlock like a rag doll. He pulled him close, against his barrel chest. Sherlock could smell his individual scent, it was dank and chemical, like a vile locker room after it had been scrubbed with bleach. “You’re the Holmes Omega.” The big Alpha said – he _crowed_ triumphant. “I’d recognise you anywhere.

"Who are you?" Sherlock choked out.

The Alpha ignored the question. "Why do you smell wrong?!” He demanded, shaking Sherlock again.

“Suppressant.” Sherlock managed, pain shooting through him. It felt like the big Alpha was ripping his arm off.

“Don’t move!” It took a second for Sherlock to realise the Alpha was talking to Lestrade. The copper had slipped out of the truck to stand beside him. He froze under the big Alpha's gaze. "Don't move or it'll be worse for you."

Lestrade held up his hands in surrender – but he didn't retreat back into the van.

“That ain’t just suppressant." The big man growled, his attention back on Sherlock. "You smell _wrong_. You smell like an Alpha.”

“Fell into a pile of... wet leaves...” Sherlock said.

The big Alpha jerked him forward and Sherlock couldn’t smother his cry of misery.

“That’s right.” The big man taunted. “You bonded with that doctor.” He gripped Sherlock’s shoulder, digging his fingers in. Sherlock gasped and staggered at the pain. “He got shot.” The Alpha said. 

Sherlock felt the man press his nose against his neck, find his bond bite with his tongue. It burned, and Sherlock shuddered in revulsion. Nausea overwhelmed him and he retched.

“That bite won’t stop me having you.” The Alpha snarled. “I won’t leave a mark, but you’ll feel it. You’ll feel everything.”

Choking, Sherlock slipped his right hand into his pocket. The gun was there, hard and reassuring, a little bit of John under his fingers. He thumbed off the safety.

The big Alpha jerked him forward, pulling him more tightly against his body. Sherlock retched again and strove to pull the gun, still in his pocket, to bear. His coat hindered him, and he thrashed in the Alpha’s grip, crying out from the pain radiating from his shoulder. The Alpha’s arms started to close about him, pinning his right arm at his side.

Then he felt someone else shoving his arm upward, angling the gun at the big Alpha’s chest. Lestrade! Lestrade was helping him! Sherlock strained against his coat, against the big man's arms, against his own weakness. Sherlock knew the instant the Alpha felt the hard muzzle pressing into his flesh, felt the man's surprise.

Sherlock pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening and Sherlock was completely disoriented, blackness closing around him.

The big man had dragged him to the ground, Sherlock still pinned to his broad chest – he struggled to remain conscious, to get free from the monster’s embrace, to aim his gun again. The big Alpha coughed and something hot and wet splattered Sherlock’s neck and chest and arm and he wriggled hysterically – he had to get away... but the Alpha lay still, inert, and Sherlock rolled off his massive chest.

He collapsed on the pavement, crumpled on his hands and knees, vomiting bile and phlegm. There was noise but Sherlock ignored it. John's father was screaming at him again... he just wanted to sleep...

The noise only got louder – there was shouting, commotion. It took so much energy, but Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up. He saw Lestrade, tan trench coat flying, fighting with two Alphas. Lestrade had blood all over his face. 

Despite their dead comrade, the two villains were laughing, toying with the copper. Lestrade swung wildly, missing both Alphas. It was a matter of seconds before they subdued him.

Lestrade danced to the side and abruptly the Alphas had their backs to Sherlock. Panic lent him strength. Sherlock wrenched the gun from his pocket... he pointed it at them but his hand was shaking... he wished he had John’s accuracy, John could have shot them both without endangering the policeman. Sherlock couldn’t. 

He staggered to his feet, using the side of the van for support. Sherlock secured the gun's safety and reversed it in his hand, holding the barrel. He launched himself desperately at the larger of the two Alphas, the woman, and clubbed her with the butt of the gun.

She roared in rage and whirled, but Sherlock fell upon her, wrapping his long arm around her neck. He clubbed her again. And again. She went limp and Sherlock let her drop, almost going down with her.

Sherlock swayed drunkenly. The last Alpha was wrestling with Lestrade, the two men in a tense embrace. The Omega was strong – stronger than the Alpha on a regular day. But Lestrade wasn't at his best – the blood on his face indicated a head wound, probably a concussion. The way his eyes focussed and unfocussed, Sherlock suspected he was seeing double.

“Over here.” Sherlock called to Lestrade.

Lestrade, with a herculean effort, twisted, pivoted, swinging the man he grappled towards Sherlock.

Sherlock lifted his arm and dropped it on the Alpha's head, pistol whipping him viciously. The momentum of the blow carried Sherlock back down to the pavement, the impact stealing his breath.

The Alpha he'd hit fell to his hands and knees. Lestrade kicked him and kicked him again and again until he lay unmoving on the pavement.

Sherlock gasped and groaned on the ground, all adrenaline, all energy, draining from him. He dropped the gun. 

“Lestrade...” He murmured.

Lestrade swore. He retrieved the gun and shoved it in one of his own pockets. Then he helped Sherlock sit, dragging him to the van and propping him there amongst the blood and bodies. The copper commenced to search the Alphas, finding phones and eventually keys. 

As Lestrade dialed one of the phones, Sherlock watched the pavement turn to water. It rose up and covered him, enveloping him in blankness.

 

—-

 

John was aware for a while before he opened his eyes. He listened to a machine beeping rhythmically, to distant voices, footfalls dopplering… he felt… he felt… surprisingly ok. He was weak, and his body ached.

His shoulder. John's shoulder hurt with an endless dull thudding.

But nothing was really _wrong_.

John opened his eyes. They were crusty, his eyelashes glued together. 

The light blinded him. He squinted through his sleep encrusted eyes. Slowly he adjusted... he was in… hospital?

He would say, yes, but if so it was the nicest hospital he’d ever seen. Nicer than any hotel room he'd ever seen. It was light and airy, painted a cheery rose. Pale oak moulding decorated the door and window frames, the dust boards and chair rail. He lay under a lovely, soft wool blanket. It was rose, yellow and pale green and it complemented the room perfectly. There were fresh flowers on an antique bed table. Beyond his feet, there was a bay window looking out on trees and blue sky. Two chairs, upholstered in a classic flame pattern, sat near the bay window an occasional table between them. It smelled... pleasant.

John had trained in hospitals, worked in hospitals, even been in hospital a time or two. None of them had looked like this. None of them had smelled like this!

But the soft clucking bleeps of machinery and the I.V. snaking from his arm left no doubt.

John shifted slightly and the dull ache in his shoulder flared into life. He gasped softly and lay back. Despite the weirdness of the situation, John felt calm and relaxed. The scent of honey filled his senses. He turned his head, his chin brushing against dark locks.

Sherlock lay curled against his right side, sleeping soundly, John’s good arm wrapped possessively around his mate. He took a deep breath… the scent of Sherlock's honey, hot and sweet, intensified. 

The honey was overlayed with freshly mown grass and green growing things… the scent of _his_ Omega was deeply soothing… they were together. They were ok. John closed his eyes and slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the people following this series, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! There might only be five of you, but you make my day!
> 
>  
> 
> In the next story in this series, we find out from Mycroft's POV how John and Sherlock got back together. When 'Biology and The Consulting Detective' is finished, I'll start posting 'Biology and The British Government.'


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade wraps up the case, John goes to see an old friend.

"Eugenics.” Sherlock said. Lestrade had come to Baker Street to wrap up the murder cases. John, just home from hospital the day before, sat on the couch. His left arm was in a sling, but he looked quite well otherwise. Sherlock sat next to him. Mycroft had joined them. He stood at the window, leaning against the desk, impassive as usual.

“Yes.” His brother replied. “After interviewing the rescued Omegas and going over the medical records Sherlock found at the brothel, we’ve determined there are at least thirty carefully bred infants… somewhere.”

“But why?” Asked John. “Is someone seriously trying to breed a super race?”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock said. “Or conducting an experiment, attempting to cure some defect. Or breed a cure for another person’s illness.”

“Or growing donor organs for transplant.” Mycroft offered. “Although that’s unlikely as the infants appear to have been bred for intelligence as well as hardiness.”

“Do you think this is why Moriarty wanted you?” John asked. “To breed your intelligence into his super babies?” If he didn’t know how ill the whole thing made Sherlock feel, he’d think he was as uncaring as Mycroft appeared. 

Although at that moment, Mycroft looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

Sherlock shrugged. “If that’s what he’d wanted, he could have put me in his infirmary and harvested my eggs.”

“Jesus.” John breathed, taking his mate’s hand and holding it on his lap. 

“Why the drownings?” Lestrade asked. “Why draw attention to it?”

“From their medical records, the murdered Omegas didn’t have the ideal genetic profile, so their eggs were considered unusable.” Mycroft said without inflection. “And they weren’t able, for whatever reason, to bring a healthy baby to term.”

“Drowning them kept Moriarty’s chief enforcer, a man named Sebastian Moran, happy.” Sherlock said, moving closer to John. “He enjoyed raping and killing, and he wasn’t picky about who. Moriarty let him have the... the less reproductively desirable Omegas. He specified drowning them in swimming pools and leaving the bodies on display but left the rest up to Moran. The girl left in the tip, she managed to scratch him. She had some of his tissue under her fingernails.”

“Moran – that’s the bloke you killed.” John confirmed.

“With help.” Sherlock said, glancing at Lestrade. John ran his thumb over Sherlock’s bond bite, soothing them both.

“And the bitter scent.” Lestrade said. “Did you ever work out what that was?”

“Pregnancy.” Sherlock told him, his face set like stone. “Specifically, a difficult or non-viable pregnancy. I remember Papa had a bitter scent that Autumn.”

Mycroft shifted restlessly – he knew exactly to which Autumn Sherlock referred… followed by the coldest winter. A silent pall filled the room momentarily.

Lestrade, mercifully, changed the subject. “Hm... and no sign of Moriarty himself.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “I went to Tallinn, following a lead from the brothel. I took apart a drugs smuggling scheme he had there, but Moriarty slipped the net.”

“Right.” Lestrade said. He closed the file.

“The Omegas.” John said. “How are they? They’re all safe?”

Lestrade nodded. “Some, like Molly, are back at home – their families had been out of their minds with worry. But the bulk of them were sold by their Alpha guardian to a corporation that seems to be one of Moriarty’s fronts. A care agency is looking for permanent homes for them, but it’s difficult. Happily, we’ve found a good interim solution.”

“Oh?”

“Sherrinford.” Mycroft said. “Most of the house was empty, there’s plenty of room.”

“You left vulnerable Omegas with… with _Mummy_!?” Sherlock shrieked in horror.

Mycroft’s chuckle was dry as a bone. “They aren’t family, she doesn’t hold their gender against them.”

“She was very welcoming.” Lestrade said. “I think she’s been lonely in that big house now that you’re both gone.”

“Wait, _Mummy_ was welcoming?!” John asked. “Sherlock’s Mummy?!” 

Lestrade just shrugged.

“We might need to mount another rescue mission.” John muttered to his bondmate. He felt Sherlock’s flutter of amusement through their link.

“I should get back to the Met.” Lestrade said, gathering his files together and standing up.

“I, too, need to be going.” Mycroft said, a faint smile on his lips. 

“Text me if you get anything good, Graham.” Sherlock demanded of Lestrade.

“Greg!” Mycroft corrected. “Seriously, Sherlock.”

“I always do.” Lestrade said with a hint of a smile. “John.” He nodded goodbye. Mycroft waited for the policeman to leave and followed him out without a word.

“They are totally doing it.” John said.

Sherlock frowned. “I sincerely hope not.”

“Mycroft smiled – you saw it, I know you saw it. For your brother, that’s practically a wedding announcement. Definitely the look of a man getting laid.”

“Look. What look?!” Sherlock scoffed.

“You see my face?” John asked. “That’s the look.”

“The day you and Mycroft look alike is the day you can go find another mate.”

John pulled Sherlock close and kissed him. “As if you’d ever allow that.”

Sherlock kissed him back, but John could feel that he was distracted. "What did Mycroft want to talk to you about?" He asked. The elder Holmes had appeared early and he and Sherlock had had a tete-a-tete whilst John was in the bedroom.

"These were delivered to his townhouse." Sherlock told him, picking up an envelope from the desk. 

John opened it and shook out the contents. There were photos, four of them: one with Sherlock and John on the street, hailing a cab; and three of Sherlock alone, one leaving Baker Street, one outside of St. Bart's and the third showed him entering a block of flats John didn't recognise. "Where's that?" He asked.

"Lestrade's."

"Lestrade's flat? What were you doing at Lestrade's flat?!"

"Does it matter? The point is that we're being watched. _I'm_ being watched!"

_"Of course it matters!"_

Sherlock sprang off the couch away from his mate. "Put your Alpha ego back in your pants, John." He said. "And _think_! This is Moriarty, it has to be."

Through their empathetic link, he felt the effort it took for John to control his base instincts, to set his Alpha jealousy aside and focus. Sherlock tried to be patient. "Right. Yeah." John took a deep breath. "He's telling us he can kidnap us again anytime, kill us anytime. We already knew that, didn't we?"

"Not quite so viscerally." Sherlock said. "Mycroft is upset. He's assigning a security team to us."

"I'm surprised he didn't do that after we were kidnapped the first time."

"Mm. He did."

"What?!"

"We thought it better not to tell you – knowing armed Betas were following us around might rile your protective instincts."

"Sherlock! That's ridiculous. They're security."

"And Lestrade is just Lestrade."

"Alright, stop poking me with that, Sherlock. I have good control, but everyone has their limits."

"For Christ's sake, John! He wanted to ask me about Mycroft. You're right, they're sleeping together." Sherlock said. 

"Why didn't you just say so!?"

"Because I didn't think I had to explain myself. I _thought_ I was _allowed_ to be independent. I _thought_ you trusted me. Was I wrong? Do you want to exercise your guardianship... should I just stay home when you can't accompany me? Should I stay home all the time? Have a couple babies, have dinner on the table every night!? Die from bloody boredom?!" 

John looked shocked. "Jesus." He said. Sherlock reached out through their link, but John's feelings didn't make sense. He was frightened. "I need some air." He said, standing up and grabbing his coat.

"What? You're leaving? Why?"

"It's not you, Sherlock. I just... I just can't..." John took a deep shuddering breath. "I can't right now." And he was gone, his footsteps pounding down the stairs and the door slamming closed.

Sherlock's righteous anger drained away.

 

\---

 

John walked, the chill air a welcome distraction from his shame. 

He would _never_ be free.

John had thought he'd mastered his instincts. But back in the flat, perseverating over Lestrade, he’d sounded like his father. 

The thought made him sick. John didn't want to be anything like his dad.

Hamish Watson had been – and probably still was, the twat – a classic Alpha, an Alphas Alpha. He was charming and charismatic, everybody liked him, so it had been hard to see. 

John had thought he walked on water.

His first memory was his Dad’s praise, how good it had felt. How much he wanted more. 

When John was six, he joined the Wee Ruggers team, and dad had been so chuffed. He'd bragged about John to anyone who would listen. He’d gone out and bought John an expensive pair of Rugby boots. They were the most beautiful shoes John had ever seen.

Wee Ruggers was for six to eight-year-olds – it was not a competitive league. It was mostly young Alphas (and a few Betas) blowing off steam, learning the form and feel of rugby. Scrums were more goose piles than anything else – the sort of thing for which Yakety-Sax was composed. Sometimes the ball hardly moved. John's first game ended nil-nil. 

John had had a blast. And Coach Burns had singled him out for praise, pointing out a bit of fast footwork he'd done midway through the half-hour.

Dad came to all his games, cheering wildly, beer in hand. Afterwards, he’d talk to John about the game, ask him to explain the strategy, to explain what he’d been thinking. Ask how he could have done better. What he thought about the other players, their faults and their strength. Mostly their faults. John never knew what to say – he was six, he was still learning the rules, let alone tactics. Criticising his teammates didn’t make him feel good.

The coach was a kind and athletic Beta who'd spent his life teaching sport to children. After a game early in the season, Coach had taken him aside to praise a spot of quick thinking on John’s part in the thick of the action that had resulted in a try for their team. John hadn't scored the points himself, but Coach had noticed his part in it. John couldn’t wait to tell his Dad!

He didn’t have to – Coach repeated the praise to Dad, telling him how well John was coming along. John glowed happily… then listened in astonishment as his Dad mocked the Coach. He pretended it was a joke, laughing heartily. Coach looked sour. But Betas instinctually try to appease Alphas. John listened to Coach agree that it was a good joke and _laugh_.

After that, Coach tried to avoid John’s Dad. He talked to John less too. 

Dad formed an informal pack of Alphas who spent the games yelling ‘advice’ from the sidelines and belittling Coach. John couldn’t help but see the Beta parents – and a few of the Alphas –avoiding his Dad, glancing sympathetically at Coach. They did that defensive Beta thing where they grouped up like herd animals – safety in numbers. The Alpha pack thought that was hysterical.

Twice there were fistfights in the parking lot after the games. Alpha on Alpha, of course. The pecking order of the pack had to be established and maintained.

John began to dread going to Wee Ruggers. 

"I told the coach that you should be hooker. You're built for it." Dad told John on the way home from one of the games. “Your mother insists you’re going to have a growth spurt soon, but I don’t see it. Being little’s good for something, though, Johnny. You should be the hooker. When I was your age, I'd already been hooker for six months.”

John had felt confused and ashamed. Dad had begun criticizing his size only recently and John didn’t understand why. "But I'm scrum-half. Coach starts all the new kids as wings or full backs, but he said he wanted me to be scrum-half ’cause I was fast."

Dad snorted. “Fast. He means you’re short, Johnny. You dart around like a little gnat. I was taller at four than you are at six.”

Dad couldn't seem to stop himself from one-upping everyone. Even his own son. John knew his dad didn't like to be challenged, but it wasn’t fair. John really loved Rugby and Dad was ruining it. “Dad, I _like_ being scrum-half.”

Disagreeing with Dad was talkbalk. Standing up for yourself was talkback. If Dad had had enough beer, talkback got you slapped. 

Dad was always 'joking' about Mum. John couldn't remember a time his Dad wasn't mockingly dismissive of her opinions, her actions and her decisions. He once told John that Mum had an 'ungrateful attitude.' John had believed him – Mum was always upset about something. Dad would buy her delicate dresses and expensive bags. Instead of thanking him and ooo-ing over the lovely thing, she'd ask where Dad expected her to wear it. She hadn't wanted Dad to get John the rugby boots – she thought they were too expensive for someone his age. He would grow out of them too quickly (he had). But at six, John didn't comprehend the extravagance. He only knew that Mum's disapproval tainted his father's amazing gift.

For all that, Dad had to know where she was at all times, where she'd gone, who she'd been talking to, what they said. He didn't like her to have friends over at the house and he _hated_ her to visit friends. Dad would brag to his pals about how beautiful she was, but it was _her_ fault if another Alpha or a male Beta looked at her admiringly.

Mum wore long sleeves every day. It wasn’t until he was older that he realised it was to cover bruises. 

The only one immune to Dad's 'jokes' and Dad's temper was Harry.

Dad never touched Harry. He never bought her extravagant gifts or bragged about her. He never held her on his lap or hugged her before bedtime. He never listened to Harry, never talked to her, never read her a story or even said 'hello.' If Harry talked back, it was mom's fault or John's fault and they took her punishment. 

John knew it was because she was an Omega, but he was hazy on why. As little sisters went, Harry was ok – she was cuddly and affectionate and she adored John, following him around the house with her bright smile and sweet scent. Mum would hug her and hold her and read them stories. When John was old enough, he read to her too. It was impossible not to smile when Harry snuggled up next to him.

Dad tolerated John reading to Harry, watching telly with her, playing games – he was hot on telling John about his responsibility to protect his sister – but no roughhousing. And no hugging – at least not where Dad could see. The worst beating John ever got was the day Dad found Harry cuddled up with John in his bed after she'd had a nightmare. John could still feel Dad's wrenching yank as he pulled him away, the punch to the gut, feel how the kitchen lino felt gritty on his cheek as he lay there gawping like a fish trying to fill his lungs with air. His father screaming at him, spittle flying, “You stupid, little shite! You’ll ruin her! It's your job to protect her! You stupid, selfish, little shite!”

After that, John didn't hug his sister no matter if Dad were around not. He didn't snuggle up when they read books or watched telly. And if she had a nightmare, John would walk her to the kitchen and give her a glass of water. After she'd calmed down, she went back to her own bed.

By the time his dad left home for good, Harry was a ghost, silent and alone. She stood behind Mum or haunted the doorways and the edges of rooms. She kept her eyes lowered and her mouth shut. Even Mum couldn't draw her out much.

Dad once called her the perfect Omega. 

When Dad left them, John experienced a strange mix of fear, confusion and relief. Mostly confusion. John had no idea why he'd left or how they'd go on without him. Dad was their Alpha! He missed his Dad keenly... but he also no longer felt tense and pressured all day long. 

Years later, after John had presented, after he felt the hormonal fire in his blood, felt his knot grow huge and bulbous, felt the driving need to best the other Alphas, to expand his territory, to claim the best mate... after he'd found himself fist fighting with good friends over 'disrespect' and who got to stand where on the playground... John understood. His father had let his base instincts rule him. 

John vowed that he would never be like Dad. He would be different. Better. 

He signed up for the after-school Alpha program – Alphas teaching Alphas to control themselves. There he'd met adults who _didn't_ belittle other people, didn’t form packs to harass Betas. Whose knee jerk reaction to anything wasn't to claim to have done better, gone faster, achieved higher. To strike out. Alphas who didn’t tear down other people to feel better about themselves. Alphas who were calm and centered.

They showed John that strength wasn't giving in, strength was rising above. 

The best part, the Dad voice in John's head couldn't disparage them – because they were all fine physical specimens. The training included a Tai-chi-like mixed martial arts-meditation practice that served as an outlet for Alpha aggression, and a repository for the Alpha competitive drive. As with many martial arts, the stress was on being able to stop a fight before it began, rather than beating the hell out of someone else. 

Of course, they did that too. The sparring was a highlight for all the young Alphas – and quite a few of the older Alphas too.

One of these Alphas had taken John under his wing. James Sholto, a tenth degree black belt, led the Alpha-chi exercises with a solemn severity that brooked no nonsense. He was terrifying in the sparring ring. 

John showed up to Alpha-chi one day, a few months in, with a shiner and bruises on his knuckles. Sholto took him aside.

“Fighting.” It wasn’t a question.

John wasn’t repentant. “My sister. A couple Alphas were bothering her.”

“She’s an Omega, yes?”

John had braced for Sholto to tell him that Harry shouldn’t have been out in public with Alphas. That was stupid! She was just gone eleven, still a kid! They’d been to the cinema. “Yeah.” John was defiant.

Sholto nodded. “How many?”

“Alphas? Three.”

“One of them was tall.”

John looked at Sholto curiously. “Yeah.”

Sholto extended his own arm. “Long reach.” He said. “Longer than yours. There are a couple ways to compensate, John. Your compact size means that you can get inside your opponent’s guard more easily. You can do a lot more damage closer in – you’ll want to use your quickness to duck in close to attack, not dodge back. Here, I’ll show you a few moves...”

John idolised Sholto.

On an impulse, John stopped at the Underground. He studied the routes – he’d have to transfer twice, but so what. He pulled out his Oyster card and started down the long, long escalators. There were a couple of people spread all across it unmoving. John swore. Stand to the right, walk to the left – that was the rule. _Everyone_ knew that! John loathed jerks who blocked everyone else. “Excuse me.” He said, “Coming through.” They looked at him like he was crazy – tourists. Probably Americans. They were the worst. Selfish.

As he brushed by them, one of them – the Alpha, of course – bumped him. He hit the railing and it jarred his shoulder. John barely stifled his cry. Gunshot wounds bloody hurt! He was overdue for his pain medication – he’d walked out of the flat without even thinking about it. 

He found a seat on a half-full carriage and curled into himself, holding his shoulder and thinking about what an idiot he was. Why had he insisted on going by the Americans? Yeah, it was irritating – it was _so_ irritating – but he wasn’t in a hurry.

He was losing it, all his control. 

It was an hour before he walked up to the storefront dojo. It looked the same as it had when John’d been thirteen. It was where he’d learned Alpha-chi. Where he’d met Mr. Sholto. He hadn’t been there in years – not since he was seventeen when he'd graduated the program. He'd kept in touch with Mr. Sholto... but they hadn't communicated since John had bonded. John didn't quite know how to tell people.

The door was open, and John let himself in. He could hear a class in session. It brought back so many memories.

“John Watson?” A familiar voice rang out.

“Mr. Sholto! How are you?”

“I’m good, John. What brings you back here.” The older Alpha was eyeing John’s sling. John felt suddenly self-conscious. He still had fading bruises on his face and knuckles from his fight with the Alpha doctor in the brothel.

“Honestly… I came by for a bit of advice.”

“Well, come on back, kettle's just boiled. I’ll make us some tea.”

“Cheers.”

John followed the tall Alpha to the little office at the back of the building.

Sholto poured water into the post and set the tea to steep. “You’re looking a bit peaky.” He observed.

“Yeah, erm, if ‘peaky’ means ‘beat up,’ then, yeah, I’m peaky.” 

“Someone with a long reach.”

“Heh, yeah, she did. A bit of training too.”

“How’s your sister? She must be bonded by now.”

“Harry... no ... well, she drinks. Yeah.”

Sholto’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Omegas get a shit deal. I’d probably drink too if I were an Omega.”

“You’re her guardian now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you...”

“Mr. Sholto, I’ll help my sister any way I can, but I don’t make her decisions for her. She’s an adult. She doesn’t want to bond and I won’t force her.”

“Mm.” Sholto busied himself pouring tea into mugs. John splashed a bit of water into his and sat back in his chair.

“How’ve you been, Mr. Sholto? I heard you got married.”

“James. You’re an adult now. You should call me James.”

“James.” John smiled briefly.

James Sholto’s expression was strange. Embarrassed, John realised. “I was married for a while.” He said. “It didn’t work out.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Mr…James.”

“Some of us aren’t marriage material, I guess.” Sholto looked John over. “What can I do for you, John?”

Clearly Sholto didn’t want to talk about his marriage. (Privately John thought the 'problem' was that Mr. Sholto only dated other Alphas. That was always fraught.) He sighed and nodded. “It’s getting away from me, James.”

“What’s getting away from you?”

“My control. My base instincts are... I’ve found myself acting in ways I’m not proud of. Just stupid Alpha shite. Stuff I’ve never…a little context… I, erm, bonded a few months ago.” 

“Congratulations, John.” James Sholto didn’t bother covering his surprise – Alphas of John’s class and social standing never bonded. “How did that come about?”

“Very quickly.” John said with a shy smile. “We met by chance and just… well… bonded. It’s good. Really good – he’s amazing. The things he can do. You wouldn’t believe how smart he is, proper genius. Yeah.”

James Sholto frowned slightly. “A genius... he must be from one of the old families. A pureblood.”

“I guess. His family is posh. They’re a little frightening, really.”

“It’s rare for a pureblood to bond outside of the established families.”

“I know, yeah. It wasn’t supposed to be me. They had someone picked out for him. But, well, it didn’t work out. I’ve gotten a... let’s say a mixed reaction from his family. But Sherlock is great. Bonding with him... I can’t explain it, it’s... life-changing.”

James smiled at John’s happiness. “Sounds like you got lucky.”

“I did. Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Is it true, what they say about the bond?”

“The empathic link? Yeah, it is. I can’t describe it. Right now...” John concentrated past his own distress. “Oh... right now he’s worried about me...” John had been so caught up in his own thoughts. He sent a burst of reassurance to his mate, smiling a little at the relief he got back from Sherlock. “I let him know I was OK.”

“Just now? Just like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think that your bonding has something to do with how you’re feeling now? Out of control?” Sholto asked.

The question took John by surprise. He thought about it – he didn’t like the idea. “I don’t think so. I don’t know. I was doing fine until recently. Out of nowhere today, I got jealous over something insignificant... it was completely stupid. Up until now, I’ve had all that Alpha bullshit in check. I mean, it’s harder around his heat, but everyone knows that and gives us a bit of space. And we’re really in synch then so it’s easy to just focus on each other. I haven’t gotten carried away.”

Sholto digested that. “This fight you were in, it was over him? Alphas were pestering him.”

“No. God, no. He can take care of himself. We were trying to help out a whole group of Omegas. They were being held – well it was awful. I got in a fight with an Alpha who wanted to keep them there. And a Beta... he shot me.”

“You were shot?!”

“Yeah. Shoulder. I just got out of hospital.”

Sholto looked John over again, his expression more concerned. “No wonder you’re so pale. Should you be out walking around?”

“Probably not, honestly. But after... after losing my cool... I needed some air.”

Sholto sat back and regarded John. “You always kept up your exercises? You go through the forms.”

“Yeah, of course. Every day – well not so much during Sherlock’s heat, but otherwise.”

“How long were you in hospital?”

“Erm, not quite two weeks.”

“And you haven’t been able to go through the forms since you were shot?”

“No... Mr. – James, do you think _that’s it_? Two weeks without Alpha-chi and I’m losing it?”

“John, you’re in pain. Your body has undergone a trauma. It's stressed, trying to heal. Your defenses are down. You haven’t been able, physically able, to practice the forms... it’s not surprising you’re vulnerable.”

John huffed a sigh. “That makes sense.” He said. “That makes a lot of sense. Is there... I can’t really do the forms properly right now... is there something I _can_ do? I don't want to keep flying off the handle at every little thing.”

“John, you have to give yourself a break. I can try to help you modify the three basic forms so that you can perform them, but you should OK it with your doctor. You don’t want to overdo it.”

“Could you!? That would be great. I think that would help.”

“You heard me say you should check with your doctor?”

John grinned. “Yeah. I will. James. But right now... let’s do this.”

John took a taxi back to Baker Street. He really wasn’t doing well – the jar on the escalator had been worse than he thought. After he and Sholto had worked out a one-armed version of the three basic forms of Alpha-chi, John was so exhausted by pain he excused himself to the bog. 

Peaky was an understatement. John was ghostly pale. He unclasped the sling, carefully unbuttoned his shirt and lifted it off his shoulder. Blood was seeping through his bandages. He swore. John gingerly pulled his shirt and sling back on. He splashed water on his face one-handed.

When he came out James Sholto handed him a couple paracetamol and a glass of water. “Maybe it’ll take the edge off, yeah.”

John took them gratefully then climbed into the cab Sholto had called. He laid back in the seat and closed his eyes. Sherlock was worried about him – for good reason – but his concern and care were reassuring.

The seventeen steps up to 221b seemed never ending. At the first landing Sherlock burst out of the flat and clattered down to John. 

“What do I do? How do I help?” He demanded.

John reached out with his good hand and touched Sherlock’s dear face. “I’m sorry.” He said. Sherlock felt John’s need and leaned down to kiss him.

“You’re in pain.” Sherlock said. 

“Yeah. Here.” John lifted his arm and Sherlock slipped under it, helping him up the rest of the stairs. It was painful, but it was fast. “Loo.” John said. “I have to change the bandage.”

“But your pills.”

“After.” John said. “They make me sleepy and I need to check the wound first.” 

Sherlock assisted John, bringing him his first aid kit and helping him undress. The bullet had gone through his shoulder, shattering his scapula on the way out. He’d had surgery to clean the wound and to remouve bone shards that could potentially puncture a lung or other damage. They’d screwed a metal plate to the large pieces, holding them so they’d knit back together more quickly.

The wound and the surgical incisions were red and angry, warm to the touch. John swore. He did the front himself, dousing it in peroxide and betadyne then dabbing antibiotic ointment on it. He had Sherlock do the same to his back.

He struggled with fresh bandages. Sherlock’s help made all the difference. Then he swallowed his pain pills and let Sherlock help him to bed.

Sherlock stretched out next to him, his hands warm on John’s hip, his lips pressed to John’s good shoulder. They had slept like this in hospital. The touch was very soothing.

“We haven’t had sex in weeks.” John observed. “Do you miss it?”

“Of course.” 

“I wish I were up for it.” John said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah.” They shared a complex mix of feelings – reassurance, need, frustration, desire, impatience, caring, all overlaid with John’s exhaustion. “Maybe… maybe you should wank and let me watch.”

Sherlock laughed, his rich baritone ringing. “Maybe when you wake up.” He said. “You can’t keep your eyes open now.”

“Maybe if I had something interesting to look at…”

“Sleep, John. I’ll make sure you’re safe in your dreams.”

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was great to hear from regular readers! You guys are the best.
> 
> I was reading someone else's Omegaverse fic recently and it was CHARMING. I realized mine is sort of horrible and dystopian. Which seems about right coming from me. 
> 
> My pet peeve is jerks who take up the entire escalator, _just standing there!_ Some of us need to be moving – pick a side and get out of the way! 
> 
> Next week, a check into how the Omegas are doing at Sherrinford.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to empower the rescued Omegas.

_She had not chosen Jean-Claude Vernet. She’d been 35 when her mother had introduced her to the 18-year old Omega, and though he was attractive and intelligent – and eminently suitable – she’d been disappointed._

_But she needed to sire children, so she’d given Jean-Claude her knot and had bitten him…_

_Their link revealed him to her – and she to him – his passionate heart, his love of science and dancing and growing things, the sadness he felt at leaving his warm and beautiful home for this stern Alpha… he had warmed her, touched her with his affectionate nature. She had found ways to make Sherrinford more comfortable for him. Bringing in plants from his home in France, watching him design a garden full of flowers and life – even as life quickened within him._

_Jean-Claude gave her Mycroft, a perfect Alpha child with eyes knowing and watchful even in infancy._

_Whilst the child was his greatest gift, his greatest accomplishment, Mummy valued her gentle bond-mate almost as much. She delighted in his company, let him do whatever he wanted to the gardens and was surprised at their clever beauty. She made love to him often and missed him dearly when she was away._

_He made her laugh. She had not expected that – for an Omega to be _funny_. Perhaps it was through their empathetic link, he had known what amused her. Perhaps he was genuinely humorous and charming. Perhaps a bit of both. _

_She cherished Jean-Claude._

_Seven years after the birth of their first Alpha, Jean-Claude was contractually bound to conceive a second child if Mummy desired. Mummy did desire it and attended his heat, breeding him. This second pregnancy was difficult. It worried her, how pale and ill he became. She brought in the best doctors, the preeminent physicians in Omega pregnancy and health. She sat with him whenever she could, taking her work to their bedroom and feeling him cuddle into her as she reviewed documents and wrote letters and made phone calls. She would run her fingers through his curls soothingly as he lay tucked beside her._

_Their second child was lusty and strong, and Jean-Claude regained his health. Mummy felt... put out. And she felt somewhat guilty about feeling that way. The child was an Omega – shocking, there hadn’t been an Omega in the Holmes family in generations. He was a bright, little thing – not like Mycroft, of course, but the Holmes intelligence was a dominant characteristic. It wouldn’t serve him, she knew, it would only make him unhappy with his lot in life. But it would make him a desirable mate when the time came._

_Jean-Claude adored the boy and Mummy could not help but share in his affection._

_Perhaps this was her gift to him, she thought, watching them together. They were so alike – though the Holmes stubborn and skeptical nature was evident in the little Omega even then._

_It had been a difficult decision, seven years later, whether to exercise her contractual right to impregnate Jean-Claude again. She knew it would be dangerous for him, the doctors had told her so. But a second Holmes Alpha was almost a necessity. Jean-Claude understood – as he understood everything about her – and cheerfully submitted to being bred again. She was hopeful – perhaps Sherlock’s very Omega-ness had sapped her bondmate’s strength. Perhaps gestating Alphas was easier on him._

_Wishful thinking. The pregnancy was disastrous, and she despaired, watching him waste away. Mummy repented her decision – if she could have terminated the pregnancy, as Beta females could, to save Jean-Claude she would have seriously considered it. But that wasn't possible for an Omega._

_She was with him at the end, trying to soothe and comfort him even as she felt him slip away._

_The loss of their bond was the worst thing she had ever experienced. Life without his constant, gentle hum pressing on her consciousness was devastating. To say that she missed him would be accurate. More accurate was that a howling void had opened within her, a terrible empty loneliness that she couldn't escape. The world was an uglier, colder place without Jean-Claude._

_And it was a more difficult place. Mycroft, her perfect Alpha, blamed her and Mummy could not face his anger._

_Worse was Sherlock. The Omega child was as lost and alone as she, but without the maturity to deal with it appropriately. He was still so young... she didn’t know what to do with him – she never had._

_She had tried, but Sherlock reminded her so much of her mate, so much of everything she had lost... she could hardly bear to look at him. When he asked it of her, she was relieved to give his care over to Mycroft. Mummy thought the responsibility would be good for the young Alpha – and she knew he had always adored his brother..._

_If only Sherlock had been an Alpha…_

 

\---

 

Sherlock found his mother in the library. The room with its blue baize and walls covered with so many books brought back a complicated stew of memory – both resentment of his mother and fascination with the depth and breadth of knowledge contained within, knowledge he’d always craved. He’d spent many hours in this room with Mycroft, both of them reading avidly – Sherlock reading books Mycroft had chosen for him as he read books chosen by Mummy.

The room was indelibly linked in his mind with Mummy. He didn’t think he’d _ever_ seen his father in the library, though he must have been. The library was Mummy’s domain, the place she spent the most time whilst at Sherrinford, sitting behind the desk at the far end of the room, talking on the phone, poring through paperwork or writing and writing and writing.

The library was where one was summoned when Mummy wanted to talk. Sherlock had only been summoned when Mummy was unhappy...

“Sherlock.” Mummy didn’t look up from her writing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She didn’t make it sound like seeing her younger son was in any way a pleasure.

“I’m curious, Mummy.”

“About why I’ve taken in the Omegas.” She said. “Is it so hard to believe I might act charitably?”

“No. But the balance of probability is that you have... multiple motivations.”

Mummy sighed and set down her pen. She looked up to where Sherlock stood, leaning against the bookshelves. “Your papa would have wanted me to take them in.”

“And...?”

“And what?”

“That’s it? Père would have wanted it.”

“Yes.” She looked challengingly at her son. “I miss him. You’re mated now, Sherlock, you can imagine how terrible it would be, losing him.”

Sherlock made a strangled sound, his anger evident.

“I know you blame me. Mycroft blames me too. And you’re right, it was my fault. I can’t undo it, much as I’d like to."

"So... what? You're searching for redemption?"

No, I'm past that, I have no illusions. It won't redeem me, it won’t make me – or you – feel any better about Jean-Claude. Nothing will. But it will help them. That seemed worth doing.”

Sherlock stared at her. He didn’t know her at all, he realised. His mother was a stranger to him.

“You remind me so much of him.” Mummy said, resolutely averting her eyes from her son. “The way you look, the way you move... your voice. I heard you laughing with your mate earlier, and I thought it was your papa, just for an instant.” Finally, she met his eyes. “I knew I could never do right by you, Sherlock. I let Mycroft take over your care. He can look at you without hating himself.”

She waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, she returned to her work. “I’ll do what I can for the Omegas. They’re good kids.”

Sherlock knew he favoured his father, but it had never occurred to him that Mummy would think him a living reminder. He had thought his presence was a punishment to her because he was an Omega, because he was abrasive and stubborn and Mummy always had to be right. He resented her for not telling him sooner, for letting him think it was _his_ fault somehow... 

A voice woke him from his reverie. _“Oi, John, have you seen Alfred? I heard he was looking for me.”_ Lestrade was in the great hall, but some trick of acoustics made his voice clearly audible in the library. 

“He seems solid, that Beta police detective.” Mummy commented. “The young people like him. You do some work with him, I believe.”

“DC Lestrade. Yes.” Sherlock was 95percent certain that she didn't know Mycroft was seeing Lestrade romantically.

“I must admit it seems odd, you working with the police. You were never one for the rules.”

“No, but I like a puzzle. When they're out of their depth they come to me.” 

“Ah. Yes.”

“I don’t let them get complacent.” Sherlock pulled a folded wallet from his jacket and tossed it on her desk. Mummy opened it – it was Lestrade’s shield, his police ID.

“How did you get this?” She asked.

“I pickpocket him when he’s annoying. Which is always.”

Mummy looked at Sherlock with real interest, possibly for the first time in his life. “Pickpocket? Show me.”

 

—-

 

The thing that Sherlock hated, that he absolutely one hundred percent loathed – and that he would never admit to anyone, not even John – was that he _wanted_ a baby. No, that wasn’t right, he didn’t _want_ a baby at all, not when he thought about everything that entailed. Not just the pregnancy and birth but caring for it. Infants were needy and messy and disruptive and incredibly time-consuming. And they didn’t grow out of it, not for years and years. Sherlock _didn’t_ want that.

But his stupid, ridiculous body longed for it. 

He spent some time at Sherrinford with the rescued Omegas. They were a traumatised lot, half of them had never been to school, could barely read. Mummy herself (!) had hired tutors and organised psychologists – all Beta, of course.

Sherlock had wanted to interview them about the injections – the timing and how they’d made them feel physically...

But John had insisted upon _engaging_ with them first, asking about friends and emotions and other nonsense.

Almost all of them wanted children – and a number were actively broody. They’d been raped repeatedly, experimented upon, some of them had been used as incubators, some had had their eggs harvested... yet they still wanted children.

It was their biology. His biology. He’d told Lestrade it was a curse, and he hadn’t lied. It frightened him, though, how _much_ he wanted it. 

Of course, to breed, they would have to have an Alpha. 

The whole topic of Alphas was fraught. Some of the Omegas tied themselves up in knots over it – they had only know abuse and neglect from the Alphas in their early lives and in the whorehouse. Whilst rationally they could comprehend that not all Alphas were the same, they were still terrified.

How could Sherlock blame then when even _John_ gave into his base instincts sometimes? 

A few of the rescued Omegas had crushes on John. It made Sherlock insane when Alfred or Pamela flirted with his mate. John would take Sherlock’s hand or put his arm around his waist, both reassuring his Omega and showing the others he wasn’t available. 

“That’s why they like me.” John had told him. “I’m safe. Despite everything, they have romantic notions about bonding. You should talk to them. Teach them how to choose the _right_ Alpha.”

Sherlock scrutinised the young survivors. They needed agency over their own lives, their futures – agency he himself had simply taken, would need to be gifted to them. Sherlock enlisted Virginia Hooper.

The Omegas loved Virginia. Most of them had never seen an Omega older than 22 – their families weren't affluent and they had all been born to Beta dams – so the mid-thirties Omega was a revelation. 

She brought Molly with her. Several of the young people sobbed unashamedly to see mother and daughter Omegas together. That they might have _this_ , a life past their early twenties, a family of their own… was staggering.

Molly told them about her ambition to be a doctor like her sire. She told them about her school where she took classes with Alphas and was just as smart and capable as they. She didn’t lie, it wasn’t easy being the only Omega. Sometimes she felt like a lamb surrounded by wolves. But she was determined. And more to the point, confident of her own worth.

Virginia and Sherlock had taken turns describing the first time they scented their mate. Virginia had met Tamsin Mahon at a dinner party. “She smelled like cloves. Cloves pressed into an orange and hung in the closet among the winter wool… I smelled her, and I just knew she would never hurt me. I knew she wouldn’t lie to me or treat me like a possession. I knew I wanted her to be my mate.”

“ _You_ chose _her_?” Suki asked. “But what about your guardian? Didn’t they want to choose your mate?”

“I was lucky. My father knew I’d be happier if he let me choose. He wanted to meet Tamsin, of course, I had to have his permission. But once he met her, he agreed, she was right for me.”

“My guardian,” Sherlock said. “Was my brother. He and my mother – whom you have all met – chose a mate for me. I expected that... I was raised knowing a mate would be chosen for me. I came here and met him… but as soon as I scented him, I knew I could never bond with him. His scent… it was _wrong_. You’ve all met someone like that? Someone you wanted to stay far away from as soon as you smelled him?”

They nodded. All of them, pulling their legs into their chests or wrapping their arms around themselves.

Alfred raised his hand.

“Yes, Al?” Virginia asked.

“All Alphas... their scents...” Alfred began haltingly. “They’re not good. I mean, I’ve never met an Alpha who didn’t... I mean... not John... John smells...” Alfred blushed red. “John won’t hurt an Omega... it’s in his scent... but that’s because he’s your bondmate, yeah... what was his scent... before?”

Sherlock frowned. “Bonding didn’t change John’s scent. It changed mine a bit, but not John’s. That was always his scent.”

“I thought... bonding made their scent pure... but if it doesn’t... who can I bond with? Who can any of us?” Alfred despaired.

“There are others.” Sherlock assured him. “But don’t let anyone pressure you into bonding with someone you don’t like. Not even Mummy – especially not Mummy! That isn’t the price of living here.”

Poor Alfred, he’d been upset by the concept of rejecting someone chosen for him, of choosing for himself. Sherlock almost lost patience with him, but John’s steady kindness flowed through their link and he’d kept his temper in check. Instead he challenged Alfred – challenged all of them – to practice saying ‘no’ to Mummy. 

“If I hadn’t refused the Alpha she chose for me, I wouldn’t be with John now.” Several of them reacted with shock at the very thought of them not together. “I ran away from Sherrinford, from Mummy and the Alpha she and my brother had chosen. If I hadn’t, I never would have found John. I met him accidentally.”

“That’s so romantic!” Paula said.

“It wasn’t. I was desperate and in trouble and John helped me – not expecting to get anything out of it. He doesn’t have money or glamour, but I asked him to bond with me anyway.”

“You asked _him_ to bond with you?!?!”

“Yes. I liked his scent – I knew from his scent what you’ve all smelled, that he’d never hurt an Omega.” Sherlock looked around at all the faces, their hope, their despair...

“When I ran away from Sherrinford, from the Alpha whose scent... when I ran away, I was hours away from full-on heat. John... I met him on the street. He helped me get to safety… but I had liked the way he smelled immediately. His scent is strong and virile and _safe_. He smells like… it sounds like sentimental nonsense, but he smells like happiness to me. I asked him to bond with me less than a half hour after meeting him. I knew if we were bonded, no one could force me to bond with... with anyone else. I thought I might regret it, making such a hasty choice, but I don’t. I could never regret John.”

“What we’re trying to tell you,” Virginia said. “Is to trust yourself. You’ll know when you meet an Alpha with whom it's worth bonding. There are a lot of Alphas and not very many of us – you can afford to be choosy. You _deserve_ a good bondmate and a happy life.”

“I’ve spoken with my mother about this at length.” Sherlock told them. “She has agreed that no one will force you to bond with anyone you don’t like. She will be inviting carefully selected Alphas here to meet you. But Virginia and I will be here when they come. You should not feel pressured to accept anyone you aren’t one hundred percent certain about. You can say ‘no.’ You can say ‘no’ a dozen times – a thousand times. _You_ get to choose your own mate.

“If you choose _not_ to bond at all, that’s fine too. If you want to study for a profession, become a nurse or a barrister or an air traffic controller, you can do that. We will _help_ you do that. You will choose your own path.”

A girl in the back raised her hand. “Yes, Nell?” Virginia asked.

“I’m afraid of Madame Holmes.” She said.

“Good.” Sherlock said. “You would be foolish not to be afraid of her. When I heard she had taken you in, I was afraid for you.”

“That’s one of the reasons why we’ve come.” Virginia told them. “Madame Holmes is not a bad person.”

“She’s simply certain that she’s right. Always.” Sherlock interjected with more bitterness than he intended.

“But she loved your father.” Virginia said mildly. “And misses him still.”

“For all the good it did him.” Sherlock muttered.

“Which brings us to the topic of birth control.” Virginia said. “Family planning allows you to choose when and how many children to have...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week I'll post the LAST CHAPTER. AND the first chapter of Biology and the British Government – which features, among other things, the return of Moriarty and the final showdown. 
> 
> If you subscribe to the new fic – or to me, I guess – you'll be notified when chapters are posted. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Sherlock's heat once again.

Sherlock’s heat was approaching, his first since bonding with John. For the first time ever he wasn’t annoyed, wasn’t feeling itchy and ill, wasn’t filled with dread. John was here. His steady presence and his strong Alpha pheromones made Sherlock feel almost anticipatory.

John had stockpiled food – fruit, biscuits, frozen dinners, crisps, a bakewell tart, a tray of sandwiches and nibbles from Mrs. Hudson (absolutely no protein bars) – to offset the intense calorie drain of his heat. He was positively gleeful at the thought of going through the next five days with a shower, clean sheets and a teapot handy.

They had both gotten birth control jabs, John noting the responsibility shouldn’t lay entirely on Sherlock’s shoulders – not to mention that Omega birth control was notoriously fallible. He’d even bought some Alpha condoms – Sherlock had scoffed and hidden them in the skull. Not that he need bother, they’d be forgotten as soon as his heat began in earnest.

John was out of the flat right now, at physical therapy. As a bonded Omega, Sherlock was no longer dangerous – his heat would make Alphas uncomfortable, but he would never again inspire a violent riot with his pheromones. He had stayed home all the same, lounging on the sofa in languid comfort. Sherlock could feel his hormones curling through his groin, exciting his erectile tissues. After today, no one expected to see or hear from them for a week.

Except Mycroft, the nosy git. 

“All I ask, brother mine, is that you send a simple text once a day." Mycroft sighed. "You’ve developed the bad habit of allowing yourself to be abducted lately and I’d appreciate knowing if I need to call in the cavalry _yet again_.”

Mycroft was worried. “You’ve received more photos.” Sherlock observed. “But no sign of Moriarty himself.”

“Yes.” Mycroft agreed. “He’s proving more resourceful than we’d anticipated.”

“How was Dublin?”

“Exhausting. You know how I feel about leg work.” Mycroft grimaced. “I spoke with several people who knew Moriarty when he was young. They refused to say much, they are still afraid of him. He leaves quite the terrifying impression, when he so wishes.”

“Mm.” Moriarty had given Mycroft a very different impression to gain his favour when he wanted to bond with Sherlock. That he could hide his nature so thoroughly from his astute brother was frightening – Mycroft was possibly even better at reading people than Sherlock, no one had secrets from Mycroft. It chilled him to the bone.

“However," Mycroft continued. "I did learn that he apprenticed with an IRA bomb maker for a while – until she turned up dead. That was a bit of a theme, almost everyone with whom he had a relationship died or disappeared – including his parents and his sister.” The Alpha clutched his umbrella. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it…”

“He’s a psychopath, Mycroft. Once he targeted me – _us_ – it didn’t matter if you saw through him or not. We’re marked for destruction, just like the bomb maker and his parents. He’ll attempt to kill us as soon as we stop amusing him.” Sherlock caught Mycroft’s expression before he smoothed it away. “What? What happened?”

Mycroft's voice was perfectly calm but he gripped his umbrella handle so hard his knuckles turned white . “The photos… they aren’t just of you and John this time.”

Sherlock studied his brother – he stood in the doorway, ready to close the door and leave if Sherlock’s heat pheromones became too strong. John was right, he looked downright gleeful all the time now – all because Lestrade had deigned to sleep with him on a more or less regular basis. Sherlock had expected the policeman to have more sense.

“Lestrade.” Sherlock deduced. “He sent you photos of Lestrade.”

“He did.” Mycroft confirmed. 

“And Lestrade won’t accept protection.” Of course he wouldn’t – not only was he a copper, as an Omega, he had something to prove, if only to himself and the two people who knew his secret. “Oh!” Sherlock saw it clearly now. “You didn’t tell him, you just did it, assigned a security detail to follow him.”

Mycroft looked away, confirmation enough.

“He’ll find out.” Sherlock warned him. “And he’ll hate you for it."

"You didn't tell John." Mycroft pointed out primly.

"That's completely different – we're bonded."

Mycroft looked distinctly irritated. "I don't see how that makes any difference..."

"It makes all the difference in the world. John's in my head, he knows how I'm feeling. He _understands_. Plus he's an Alpha, he doesn't have to prove he's tough enough, everyone assumes it. Not so, Lestrade."

Mycroft opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it and gazed balefully down at Sherlock. Clearly, he'd made his point.

You’re going to ruin things with Lestrade. It's inevitable.” Sherlock said, more sadly than he'd intended. He watched the brightness in his brother’s eyes fade a tad. “You won’t be able to help yourself.”

“If that’s what you believe, why did you throw him in my path?” Sherlock could see he was angry, and trying to mask it with irritation.

“Oh, just proving a point.”

“And what point might that be?”

“That your expectations of Omegas are nothing more than a ridiculous social construct.”

Mycroft sighed wearily. “If you want me to say that I’ve made mistakes in how I’ve treated you…”

“I don’t blame you for that, Mycroft. I blame Mummy. It’s not too late for you.”

“How thoughtful of you, to teach me a lesson.” He smiled venomously and Sherlock shivered..

“You surprised me though. I didn’t expect you to care for him so much.”

“Did you think me incapable?”

“‘Caring is not an advantage.’" Sherlock taunted. "It’s practically Mummy’s motto. I thought you’d embraced it wholeheartedly.”

“Caring about _you_ has certainly had its drawbacks.” Mycroft snapped.

“Must be why Mummy has never much bothered. Have you told her about Lestrade yet? I imagine she'll be thrilled.”

Mycroft paused briefly, composing himself. “You always have to stir the pot, don’t you Sherlock.”

“Everything is so dull otherwise.”

“If you wanted excitement, you should have bonded with Moriarty.” Mycroft laughed nastily at his brother’s shocked expression. He was angrier than Sherlock had realised.

“Give me a cigarette.” Sherlock demanded. “I need one if I have to listen to you.”

“John told me you quit. Now why would he think that?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Give me the pack and I’ll send you your texts.” He said.

Mycroft pulled a new pack of his ridiculously expensive cigarettes out of his jacket. He had known what Sherlock’s price would be. Well, Sherlock had expected him to know. That was one of Mycroft’s specialties. Mycroft held them up. "Daily?"

"Yes!" He wondered when his brother would realise that Lestrade, like John, couldn’t be bought. It would be interesting to observe. It’s too bad Mycroft would ruin his relationship with the police detective – he was definitely more bearable when he was distracted by regular sex. Sherlock lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. "John left something for you..." He suddenly remembered. He gestured towards the kitchen. "Envelope on the table."

Mycroft ventured out of the doorway into the flat. He picked up the manilla envelope and opened it, examining the contents. "Good. Excellent." He murmured.

"You're still going through with it?" Sherlock asked. "Mummy's scheme."

"Of course. It makes perfect sense." Mycroft let the papers fall back into the envelope and resealed it.

"Yes, right. Force the Omegas to bond, get them out of Sherrinford..."

" _No one_ will force them." Mycroft retorted as if he'd said it a hundred times already. It's possible that he had. "We're simply giving them the option of bonding with respectable Alphas, _if they choose_."

Sherlock scoffed. "Respectable."

"Yes. Respectable. Not the sort who would ever darken the door of an Omega brothel. That's what this is for." Mycroft held up the envelope. "The first of several tests to weed out the unworthy."

"Tests!" Sherlock scoffed. "It's a questionnaire."

"It's a highly scientific test designed by the leading minds in the field..."

Sherlock scoffed even more loudly. "Alphas you mean."

"...and then vetted by John, his contact at the 'Alphas Teaching Alphas' organisation, Sholto, and myself..."

"There's only one way to be certain that an Alpha is... 'respectable.'" Sherlock sneered."

"I know!" Mycroft thundered. "Don't you think I know that better than anyone!?"

"Mycroft...."

"You'll get your chance to scent them, Sherlock! Every single one of them! You and Virginia Hooper and... and Greg, if he so desires! That's the test they _must_ pass before they're allowed in the same _county_ as those Omegas! And then it's up to _them_ , each, individual Omega, to decide if one of the Alphas is acceptable." Mycroft visibly calmed himself, his face slipping back into the mask of superiority he habitually wore. It took effort. "Sherlock, they're welcome to stay at Sherrinford indefinitely. You know that as well as I."

“You’d best go.” Sherlock replied, ending the argument. “John will be back soon, and you know how he gets with other Alphas in his territory around now.” 

Mycroft sniffed – heat pheromones didn’t have a scent so much as they had a texture. They should be making his brother distinctly uncomfortable. Yes, Sherlock could see a sheen of perspiration on his brow. Perhaps that's why he'd become so uncharacteristically emotional.

“Indeed... give your mate my regards.” Mycroft huffed with all the dignity he could muster and left, his umbrella tapping on each of the seventeen steps that led down to the street.

Sherlock believed that his brother had good intentions. He'd always had good _intentions_ however misguided his actions. Was this scheme of Mummy's – to throw a soiree to introduce the 'respectable' Alphas to the rescued Omegas – misguided? He didn't know. Many of the Omegas had expressed a desire to bond in the abstract. Perhaps this was the best way to give them the opportunity. But he was deeply distrustful of his mother's motivations... and Mycroft... he was embracing the scheme wholeheartedly, vetting the young Alphas himself, putting them through rigorous checks... but he had approved of Moriarty. Had he learned enough from that experience to be trusted? 

Mycroft. For years Sherlock had vowed that as soon as was free of his guardianship, he'd cut himself off from his family completely. But reality was nothing like what he'd imagined. Sherlock needed hi brother if they were going to take down Moriarty. And Mycroft seemed changed... humbled... by Moriarty and the riot... But could Sherlock trust him? They had always been simpatico, their intelligence so similar... it had been comforting growing up to know that Mycroft _understood_ the ravenous, all-consuming genius inside his head.

This affair with Lestrade was something else – it surprised Sherlock how fully Mycroft had embraced the relationship. It too was changing him for the better. He wondered if there was anything he could do to keep Lestrade from becoming disillusioned with his brother...

“I’m home.” John called, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie – he must have lost track of time after Mycroft left, it was getting dark out already. 

John scented the air in the flat, tasting the pheromones. “How are you feeling?” He asked. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead lingeringly, then pulled himself away. “Tea?”

Sherlock didn’t bother answering. There was no point – John knew how he felt, John knew exactly how he felt. Always.

“Physical therapy was fine, thanks for asking.” John said good-naturedly. He was rapidly regaining strength and range of motion on his left side. It was his dominant hand and he was determined to have full use back before his surgical rotation next year. 

They’d also started going to the shooting range again. Even injured and shooting with his non-dominant hand, the Alpha was a better shot than Sherlock. It was irritating.

John brought him a mug of tea and set it on the coffee table. Sherlock saw that he was hard in his jeans and felt an answering throb in his own groin. He felt flushed. Sherlock groped for his own pulse and felt it racing. This was a very different start to his heat… so much gentler. 

John climbed on top of Sherlock where he lay on the couch, still favouring his injured shoulder, and lined up their erections. Then he leaned over and blew a raspberry in the open ‘V’of his shirt.

Sherlock laughed in surprise, his rich baritone vibrating in his chest under John’s lips. “Why are you so happy?”

“I have you all to myself for the next five days.” John said, kissing along Sherlock’s collarbone and then the delicate indent at the base of his throat. “How could I possibly be happier?”

“Chemical toilet in the next room?”

John groaned. “It’s disgusting to think that thing is still there... is it? Still there?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Might need it again sometime.”

“The next time you need to hide out and bond with a random Alpha.”

“You’re hardly ‘random,’ John. In fact, you’re incredibly specific.”

“I don't know what that means.”

Sherlock caressed the front of his mate’s swelling trousers. “It means that I _specifically_ chose you. I _specifically_ love you. And you, _specifically_ , are going to fuck me through this couch.” He undulated beneath the Alpha, and his heat took hold of him, setting his body afire with frantic need. “I want you so much right now. Fuck me, please, John, fill me up!” He tore at John’s flies.

“Next time we’ll remember to undress beforehand.” John mumbled, kissing his mate deeply. He quickly unfastened his trousers and freed his turgid Alpha cock, his sac pendulous and heavy. 

Sherlock cried out in delight, both hands stroking the fat shaft. He loved how, when John was aroused, the rosy head peeked shyly from it's cowl. He pulled it back and brushed his thumb over the tip, smearing the damp evidence of his Alpha's desire.

“Fuck, I want you _now_!” John groaned. He grasped the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama pants and yanked them down, lifted Sherlock’s legs and pulled them off entirely. He took advantage of Sherlock having his legs in the air, pressing them down onto Sherlock’s chest and letting his erection bump at his Omega’s slick opening.

“Do it!” Sherlock begged. “My Alpha!”

John wasted no more time. He plunged his cock into his mate, sighing deeply. Through their link, Sherlock felt John’s relief and pleasure doubled over his own. It was transcendent. The Alpha clutched at him, gathering Sherlock into his arms and burying his face in his Omega’s hair.

Sherlock wept joyfully. He scented John, pressing his nose to his Alpha’s neck as John bathed in the pleasure of his Omega scent. His mate was experiencing his honey smell as a drenching rain shower – his own summery scent overlaying it caused John immense satisfaction and arousal.

John began to move, to pump himself slowly in and out. Sherlock’s whole being ignited, all the burning want within him satisfied in a primal way. He relaxed, his mate was taking care of him as only his mate could.

In this first flush of heat, John could be deliberate, leisurely. He kissed Sherlock over and over – Sherlock could feel how it affected John, every brush of his tongue, press of his lips traveled directly to his cock and his nipples… the kisses made John’s prick throb and jerk in the tight heat of his Omega's passage. It was delicious, Sherlock teased him, licking his mouth and lips and neck…

Abruptly it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to fuck lazily on the sofa, Sherlock _had to_ be bred by his mate. He had to be bred _now_! John began to thrust in earnest, the scent of sweat and sex mingling with Sherlock’s sweetness, creating a lustful haze. Every breath fed John’s arousal… heightened it dizzyingly...

“Turn over!” John growled, pulling out with a wet smack. “Over!”

Sherlock scrambled onto his hands and knees, then pressed his face to the couch, presenting himself to his mate. He felt John’s triumph through the empathetic link, felt the sparkling lust and the shimmering lights of deeper emotions…

John penetrated him, his fingers digging into Sherlock’s hips, shoving his cock deep, as deeply as he could. The angle made it slide over the Omega’s pearl inside him perfectly. He felt the scratch of John’s pubic hair against his arse only briefly, then John was hammering away, their bodies slapping together lewdly. Sherlock was crying out – John’s big Alpha cock was stroking over his sensitive pearl repeatedly, constantly. His pleasure mingled with John's, looping through their link and overwhelming him. Sherlock wasn't certain any longer if he were fucking or being fucked, he experienced it all. He keened with bliss.

Sherlock felt his orgasm become inevitable and he clung to the feeling, surfed it through the ocean of sensations until he wiped out, his climax rushing over him like a wave, pulling him under... his body clenched down hard, the pleasure washing through him tsunami-like in intensity. Every thrust against his Omega’s pearl caused another seismic tremor, another wave of pure physical joy. His limbs became weak and rubbery, and he collapsed onto his belly, moaning.

John didn’t slow – he fucked his mate with singular focus, bruising his hips with his fingers – for a long moment, the only thing that existed was his mate’s scent, his mate’s pleasure, his mate's impossibly tight passage, his mate’s fertile body beneath his thrusting cock… John’s knot swelled round and huge, flushing his system with testosterone and endorphins. He was mighty! He had won this Omega! He claimed this Omega. He had prevailed! John shoved his growing knot inside his mate and fit his teeth against the scar on the back of Sherlock’s neck. He bit down, and his Omega convulsed with the pleasure of being claimed once again by his Alpha, by John. 

Sherlock felt everything that John was feeling – powerful and triumphant, his orgasm like electricity, shocking and jolting under his skin. John's seed gushed inside him, swamping his womb. And he wanted it, wanted his Alpha's semen so badly! Every fresh spurt was pure bliss. Sherlock felt pleasure possessing John, rocking him, from his curling toes to his prickling scalp, every cell in his body was full, filled, fulfilled – this was John's purpose, this Omega completed the Alpha… nothing existed outside of their carnal cocoon...

Later – much later – they lay spooned in bed, naked and sweaty, John’s knot caught inside him for the third or fourth time that night. Sherlock was trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasms in his Alpha’s strong arms… ‘this is happiness,’ he thought. ‘I have everything.’

Then he remembered his conversation with his brother. Moriarty. Moriarty watching them, waiting… Moriarty hanging over their heads like a pendulum, ready to swing down and deal the killing stroke…

“What is it?” John asked softly. “What are you thinking about?”

John had felt the shift in Sherlock’s emotions. He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his Omega's neck.

“Moriarty.” Sherlock confessed. “Soon he'll be finished with the games. I’m… I’m afraid of what he’ll do – what he’ll _try_ to do to us.”

John stroked his mate’s dark curls. It was soothing. “What brought this up?”

Mycroft came by. There are more photos. It’s not just us, now they’re stalking Lestrade too. Mycroft is… furious. And terrified.”

“He’s really fallen for Greg, then.”

“Clearly.” Sherlock shifted his legs, restless now, but unable to separate himself from John. “We haven’t been able to find him, John. We’ve been taking his syndicate apart, Mycroft and I, destroying it... but Moriarty himself is nothing more than a rumour. A whispered name. A voice on the phone. He’s smoke… vapour…”

“But he will come for us – for you – sooner or later.” John's arms tightened around him.

“Yes.” Sherlock hated – _hated!_ – that he was vulnerable, that John was vulnerable. Mycroft and Lestrade too, all of them, vulnerable and exposed. No matter what they did, what precautions they took, he felt defenseless against Moriarty’s whims.

“Sherlock… he’ll never take you from me. If he tries, if he abducts you again, I’ll go to the ends of the earth to get you back. There’s only one way this ends, Sherlock, when he comes for you, _I will kill him._ ”

Sherlock curled further into John’s sturdy arms, allowing himself to relax and revel in their bond. It was so tempting to believe it, believe it could be that simple – John would kill anyone who threatened them. 

It was the heat pheromones. Everything seemed simple when he was in heat… but Sherlock new better. 

Moriarty was a spider, spinning his web. Soon enough they would be caught in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for following this story! I've enjoyed all your comments, questions and ideas. I look forward to Wednesdays now, like you wouldn't believe.
> 
> A bit of foreshadowing in the chapter about what it to come! This series continues with Biology and the British Government – Sherlock & John, et al have a final showdown with Moriarty! Just click on 'Next Work' below. Mystrade-o-rama!


End file.
